One Track Mind: Allan Holdsworth, "The Drums Were Yellow" (2000)

by Pico

Of all the rock or fusion guitarists out there, there's none out there who possesses the most pleasing tone, amazing technique and exceptional phrasing all wrapped up into one than the Brit Allan Holdsworth. He's is a guitarist's guitarist, having influenced everyone from Eddie Van Halen to Greg Howe. Holdsworth had been a journeyman for many years, bouncing around notable prog or fusion bands like The Soft Machine, Lifetime, UK, Level 42, Gong and Gongzilla (a spinoff of Gong).

He's also made a good living as a sessionist, and his appearances on Jean-Luc Ponty's Enigmatic Ocean and Individual Choice elevated both of those albums. Holdsworth also performs on Ponty's upcoming new release The Acatama Experience, which I'll discuss in a review of that CD in a few weeks.

But Holdsworth has also performed as a leader and produced about 15 or so solo records since the late seventies. They are of varying quality but several of them are quite good. His best of all came in 2000 when he stripped down the format to the basics for The Sixteen Men of Tain. Here, there's no overproduction or keyboards distracting from his message, which is a message of maximal musicianship, group interplay and intriguing chord progressions. If I had to pick only one electric guitar virtuoso album to take to that mythical desert island, it's going to be The Sixteen Men of Tain. Really, it's not even a close call.

And while I could easily go on about the whole album enough for multi-part series, one song deserve special focus That's because "The Drums Were Yellow" is Allan's tribute to his old boss in Lifetime, the legendary drummer Tony Williams, who sadly passed away unexpectedly ten years ago this past January. It's also a standout in an outstanding album because it's just Holdsworth and drummer Gary Novak tackling a really knotty composition. Thus, we get to hear what these guys are really made of.

"The Drums Were Yellow" plays like free jazz rendered with a rock attitude. Holdsworth begins by playing full, unusual chords on his SynthAxe of a barely perceptible melody that seems to float over Novak's simple mid-tempo rhythm, with some of his trademark fluid note flourishes occasionally popping up. Finally, this two and half minute introduction of sorts gives way to a mournful sound from his Axe played in that unmistakable legato style of his as Novak shifts rhythms with increasing restlessness.

Holdsworth follows the drummer's lead and cuts loose with a series of nasty licks before both wind down just before the soloing could get overplayed. The track ends with a solemn-sounding synthesized string statement, also from his SynthAxe, as if to be bidding his departed ex-leader farewell.

It's one thing to be able to be able to get such a full, clean and melodic sound from a technologically advanced instrument like Holdsworth's customized guitar synthesizer. It's a much greater feat to coax such emotion out of it. "The Drums Were Yellow" is a tribute from one virtuoso to another that utilizes virtuosity as a tool to make music for genuine expression, rather than technical wizardry just for the sake of technical wizardry.

Listen: Allan Holdsworth "The Drums Were Yellow"

Purchase: Allan Holdsworth The Sixteen Men of Tain


"One Track Mind" is a more-or-less weekly drool over a single song selected on a whim and a short thesis on why you should be drooling over it, too.

Guilty pleasures: If it sounds good to you, should you feel bad?

by Pico

Guilty pleasures. Admit it, we've all got 'em when it comes to music.

For some time, now, I've been meaning to put a list together for everyone's amusement. I was reminded of that half-serious promise I made to myself when I came across Rolling Stone Magazine's back-handed compliment piece listing 25 "undisputed" guilty pleasure bands.

Yeah, yeah, I know, it's Rolling Stone, for crissakes, but much like that infamous "100 Best Guitarists" list, they sure seem to know how to get a lively discussion going. For the record, I found all but one entry on that guilty pleasures list either guilty or pleasurable but not both, except for one.

So after carefully building up a reputation here (ha) over the last ten months, it all comes tumbling down here in one fell swoop. Behold my own guilty pleasures list:

1) Gino Vannelli

Why he gets scorn
Especially in the beginning, Toronto-based Vannelli wrote some incredibly cringe-inducing vapid lyrics, like "now don't get paranoid, I ain't a horny little mongoloid." He also often over-emoted the hell out of his voice, like as if he forgot he was singing rock and was performing an opera instead (much later he did recognize that he was singing opera and put out a real opera record). And the heavy reliance on ARPs and Moogs gave his recordings shorter shelf lives than a fresh grouper left out on a sidewalk in July.

Over time, all these quirks were mitigated just enough to give him a #2 hit in 1978 with the sappy ballad "I Just Wanna Stop." So Gino probably didn't get all that widely criticized, because nobody noticed him much when he was more prone to show his bizarre side. Lucky him.

Why I dig him, anyway
Vannelli had some pretensions of being a soul-jazz inflected prog rocker before he eventually settled for just getting a few AM hits, but while he often failed in that pursuit, he came up with some interesting, melodic stuff anyway. "Where Am I Going" flashed some sophisticated arrangements and tempo changes, while "The Surest Things Can Change" has a sweet, melancholy vibe that proved the Italian Stallion of the North could come across sincerely if he just went light on the syrup. Plus, he didn't skimp on the studio help; guys like Jay Graydon, Graham Lear, Ernie Watts and Jimmy Haslip provided the instrumentation, and it showed.

2) Michael Franks

Why he gets scorn
Like Gino, Franks is a pseudo-jazz crooner, singing silly, sappy love songs. You'd think that people would have had enough of silly love songs (eh, Sir Paul?). But at least Gino has gears in his voice. Franks goes at one speed: a dull monotone.

Why I dig him, anyway
Franks' dull monotone singing can be appealing if it's applied wisely to soft romantic songs---like Chet Baker did with his similarly thin warble---and it often was. What's more, sometimes his compositions are so consciously silly they actually become charming. Part of the charm, though, was Franks clever use of double entendres that could sometimes do 1930's country blues naughty boy Bo Carter proud. "Popsicle Toes" is a classic of bouncy, lightly naughty ditties. But where Vannelli brought in his fare share of noted sessionists, the credits list on Franks albums often read like Warren Zevon's or Steely Dan's: Joe Sample, Michael Brecker, Larry Carlton, David Sanborn, Wilton Felder, with Tommy LiPuma and Al Schmitt behind the boards...and that was all from his first release.

3) Heatwave

Why they get scorn
They were disco. Nuff said.

Why I dig 'em, anyway
Sometimes I think they got the disco label only because the word "boogie" got mentioned forty of fifty times on each of their dance numbers. Musically, they were a lot closer to Earth, Wind & Fire than the Village People. There were guys in the band who actually played instruments and they had good chops. And Rod Temperton's songwriting ("Boogie Nights," "Always & Forever," "Groove Line") was a couple of cuts above everyone else's, whether you wanted to call it disco, R&B or funk.

This isn't the first time I've raved on Heatwave, so I won't go any further, here. Suffice to say, they managed to give disco a good name. That in itself is worthy of somebody's lifetime achievement award, don't you think?

4) Hall & Oates

This is the one act where I agree with Rolling Stone's list.

Why they get scorn
They ruled the pop world in the first half of the eighties. That doesn't exactly carry the same weight as saying "Elton John ruled the pop world in the first half of the seventies." And have you ever seen the album cover of their 1975 self-titled release? *shudder*

Why I dig 'em, anyway
Even as their music became increasingly bogged down by vintage cheesy synths, Sonar drums and other trendy production tricks of the time, the Philly soul element still managed to emerge from it---"One On One" is a prime example. If you listened closely enough, you'd find that John Oates was a better than average singer. Daryl Hall's singing was simply outstanding, and you don't have to listen closely at all to know that.

And if none of this convinces you, then I guess it's time to pull out my trump card: these were the same guys who came up with Abandoned Luncheonette. That album alone bought them some serious cred. Sure, they might have since spent it all, but what the hell, the spending spree was mostly fun.

5) Jeff Lorber

Why he gets scorn
Lorber is a conservatory-trained fusion keyboardist, and sounds like it. Sure, he's got chops galore, but none of them are his own. Mostly, he stole them from Chick Corea. He started out with jazz-funk, but now he's a smooth jazz star. Another strike against him, unless you generally like that kind of music.

Oh, and he gave Kenny G(orelick) his big break. Thanks, Jeff.

Why I dig him, anyway
Lorber's brand of funk-jazz, when he doesn't dilute it with guest vocalists and banks of synthesizers, is straightforward and genuinely soulful. His keyboard licks are consistently concise and in the pocket. Even some of his latter smooth jazz recordings retain those attributes. But early albums like Lift Off and Water Sign are some of the finer examples of non-nonsense fusion I've come across. A lot like middle-period Return To Forever without the excesses. So maybe Lorber did separate himself a little bit from Corea after all, and in a good way.

So there you have it. There might be a few more guilty pleasures I didn't put on the list, but I might've embarrassed myself enough already. I need to make amends and find a nice, arty record to review. Has anyone covered Tom Waits' Bastards CD yet?

Forgotten series: Sir Charles Thompson, "Takin' Off" (1947)

NICK DERISO: The hard-punching Charles Thompson is best known, if he's known at all now, as a deep-background member of the Coleman Hawkins/Howard McGhee band from this period. On "Takin' Off," however, Thompson's frisky rhythm and round-house experimentation are a constant reminder of just how underappreciated he remains.

Thompson wasn't simply a link between the swing era and bebop, having first played with Moten and Basie in the earlier style and then risen to a brief moment of influence with guys like Gordon and Parker in the modern vernacular. He was one of the few who dared bridge the yawning chasm between the two, and did so with the same style and grace as his old friend Hawkins.

That spectrum of brilliance is best experienced on this record, which takes right off with a title cut featuring Dexter Gordon that forcefully recalls the great Lester Young. Thompson -- a mainstay on New York's legendary 52nd Street scene in the '40s and '50s and composer of the standard "Robbins' Nest" -- was once Young's pianist.

Gordon, too, was in a period of transition. Here, he deftly expands on Thompson's still-unique sound -- sort of a big-bop hybrid -- having only recently left Lionel Hampton's straight-ahead jazz band for a stint with Billy Eckstine's edgy be-bop outfit.

Charlie Parker then insinuates himself early on during "Takin' Off," which was later reissued on Delmark. His turn, in keeping with the myth, is painfully short.

Also included for good measure are seven unreleased tracks that Thompson recorded for Chicago's Apollo Records, and they give him room to stretch out and make himself at home. But while the playing partners changed -- Bob Dorsey, Leo Parker and Pete Brown came on as subsequent members in combos with the pianist -- Thompson remains perhaps doomed to failure because he just wouldn't be categorized.

In the end, though, what I love is that Charles Thompson goes down swinging. He can't help but lunge at both bop and big band. It still knocks me out.

Mavis Staples, "We'll Never Turn Back" (2007)

NICK DERISO: In anybody else's hands, this new Mavis Staples album would have been a museum piece, interesting but ultimately dust-covered and remote.

Not that "We'll Never Turn Back" (to be issued on Tuesday by Anti- records) doesn't have plenty of right things to say, and certainly plenty of righteous things, in melding well-known "freedom songs" of the Civil Rights movement with like-minded newer compositions.

But Staples ends up using them as a platform to tell her own engaging story of survival, and of hope, and (perhaps most importantly) of determination to foster change still to come.

"We'll Never Turn Back," as expected, speaks to the larger issues of equality, but also to Staples' own difficult upbringing in the rural Deep South of separate water fountains and separate lives -- and how that helped shape her into a woman, and into an artist.

As a member of the 1960s-era Staples Singers, Mavis always drew from the deep well of spirituals and church hymns -- even if it was only by feel -- to push her sound into your heart. Along the way, her family group became (through tunes like "Respect Yourself," "City In The Sky," "Why Am I Treated So Bad?") one of the most important of the mainstream soul collectives to fight through music for racial justice.

Here, Staples finds the same delicate balance, coupling ageless reinterpretations (beginning with J.B. Lenoir's "Down in Mississippi") with tracks co-written by producer Ry Cooder. The result is something somehow instantly recognizable and yet completely new.

Cooder, for instance, turns the familiar "This Little Light" inside out -- arranging it as a chugging blues groover. Later, in a spoken ad-lib during the traditional "99 and a Half," Staples tries to exorcise scenes familiar to Americans in the wake of the devastating hurricanes of 2005: "Broken levees, lying politicians, running through hatred, homeless babies -- freedom now! Freedom now!"

She still sees a second-class America that needs to be saved. As far as Staples has come, the journey, she insists, is far from over.

In this way, "We'll Never Turn Back" transcends humble homage to become one of the most emotionally honest albums I've heard in years, shattering in its scope but personal in its bravery.

With an intellect as piercing as the ringing steel-guitar that permeates this CD, Staples sings with both pride and pain -- "I integrated a washateria," Staples remembers, with a sharp, grizzled toughness -- and never, ever turns away from what must be said about those times.

Or these.

With the next breath, you'll find Staples back on the stump, exhorting us all to do what's right: "Hold on; keep your eyes on the prize," she sings.

In the end, this isn't a record about recrimination, so much as bootstrap inspiration. And that's what makes it timeless.

"We'll Never Turn Back" examines, with simple dignity yet steadfast resolve, where Staples has been. I expected that. What I found was that it also told me a lot about where she'd still like to go.

Crowded House, "Together Alone" (1994)

NICK DERISO: This summer's reunion of those pop perfectionists Crowded House had me back listening to this terrific mid-90s release, which -- like the new tour -- does not include longtime frontman Neil Finn's brother Tim.

From its completely realized debut with producer Mitchell Froom to the transformations when Neil and Tim (former leaders of the new wave outfit Split Endz) came and went as partners in songwriting, this New Zealand band never failed to put out an air-tight, listenable record. Still, offerings like 1991's "Woodface" (which included Tim) were very nearly too precious. This one established itself as a more straight-forward, if ornamented, release -- and that made it one you can live with.

First, it's a moment when Neil seemed to come into his own as a vocalist. His performance on the title track, in particular, was intelligent and unguarded. In fact, on several tunes -- notably "Nails in My Feet" and "Distant Sun" -- he pushed his voice well beyond what we'd heard before.

Too, there were evocative nods to the band's South Pacific surroundings, including guest shots by the Waka Huia Choir and a group of Auckland log drummers.

That subtle evolution gives Finn's simple love songs a heightened reality, and surprising cultural heft, on repeated listenings.

Clearly, Neil has always had an emotive voice ("Don't Dream It's Over," the Endz' accessible "I Got You"), but this was something else entirely -- a baring of soul belying its pop underpinnings.

Pay close attention to a powerfully repeated line in "Nails": "It brings me relief." Neil never sang it the same way twice. That nearly approaches the emotional arch of his octave jump in "Sun" (perhaps the best song here) on the line, "no fire where I lit my spark."

Credit, lastly, American Mark Hart's incisive guitar -- which had a profound influence, even on the generally more expected ballads. (Hart had replaced Tim Finn on "Together Alone" after the previous tour with Crowded House.)

It was intimated at the time that this sound was more in keeping with the group's in-concert approach. "Together Alone" was actually something new entirely -- a welcome roughing up of a perhaps too-smart band, one reacting to both the heavy sounds of the then-new college rock scene but also the equally satisfying seepage of worldly rhythms into mainstream pop.

Paired with Tim Finn's more conventional "Before and After" CD of the same period (which included two tunes from the "Woodface" sessions), it was a moving new manifesto on what popular music can, even now, aspire to.