#647: al green - tired of being alone (1971, soul train)
what’s out today? let me tell you: three dvds with five hours of soul train, one of the great institutions in american pop culture, hosted by don cornelius, the best-named man in show business. and as if that weren’t enough, there’s over three hours that time-life home entertainment is promising to be “fabulous bonus material.” but if it’s this video of blue al green looped over and over i’ll be satisfied.
#642: gram parsons and emmylou harris - streets of baltimore (live, 1973)
first came a bookstore-bathroom run in with ultra rare hipster runoff graffiti. and this afternoon, in the middle of a very stressful observer deadline, i got to have an actual back and forth with pitchfork founder ryan schreiber, who, let’s face it, is a true indie-and-internet god. if you’re interested, and who could blame you if you’re not, it was a gentlemanly twitter disagreement over his site’s top-videos-of-the-90s list, which ends with aphex twin’s dementedly dark come to daddy.
not the decade’s single best video, i said.
agree to disagree, he proposed.
and what, he wanted to know, would i have chosen?
no surprises, wow and flutter, c.r.e.a.m., or even windowlicker, i said.
the finale came with his excellent point that anthony kiedis’ ocean rap should have been number one. and just like that our conversation had ended! the irony is that i started the day by spending 90 minutes compiling my list of the top 10 videos of grainy live versions of beautiful country rock songs about major maryland metropolitan areas. this one ended up on top, and it goes out to you-know-who.
#639: celia cruz & the fania all-stars - guantanamera rehearsal (zaire, 1974)
james brown struggles and sweats, then celia cruz struts and sways. her effortlessness is something from a greek myth. it is inhuman.
and when an audience is actually in front of her, brains will whirl into the cosmos.
#638: james brown - try me (1974, zaire)
the song is a wedding cake, the album cover is a silver platter, and james brown’s acappella astrological breakdown at the end of his performance in zaire ‘74 is icing: “baby!” he says. “yeah,” grunt the backup singers. “can i call her? baby! woman! gemini! scorpio! pisces! libra! virgo! cancer! aries! sagittarius! capricorn! leo! taurus! walk with me!” it’s the best horoscope in the history of zodiac.
#634: the soul stirrers - lord, remember me (c. 1976)
managing to sound like this two decades after sam cooke quit your band is like losing nine fingers and winning a bowling championship. except gospel singers don’t drink, wear better outfits, and can make harmonies that wash sins from dark manhattan souls.
#629: the beach boys - disney girls (1971)
this might be all the rich lipton tea i’ve had this afternoon talking, but my favorite beach boys song wasn’t written by brian wilson (although good vibrations is the most terrific pop hit of the century, and sloop john b is a maritime classic, and surfer girl is awfully tender). it wasn’t even written by al jardine or that grinch mike love, though they did don’t go near the water. it’s disney girls, written by backup singer bruce johnston of peoria, illinois, and it’s so unimaginably dark and lonely that it looks feathery and light and cute. the bridge is about late-50s television and will make you cry. if it doesn’t, try brian wilson and van dyke parks’ take on similar subject matter.
#625: billy preston - will it go round in circles (1973, midnight special)
there aren’t many things in the world that make stevie wonder look like an accountant, but this is one of them. billy preston had more soul in the gap between his two front teeth than most electric clavinetists in red silk suits could ever dream of. the only thing his hair ever got jealous of was his melodica. “will it fly high like a bird up in the sky?” billy, it will.
#614: karen dalton - something on your mind (1971)
i don’t know how you normally spend excruciating new york heatwaves, but from the bottom of my heart i recommend lying next to a fan in your underwear in a puddle of your own sweat and melted ice cubes while listening to karen dalton’s in my own time, a sticky and soft album that allows languid people to do languid things languidly on horrific early july afternoons.
#610: ringo starr - back off boogaloo (1972)
today’s news that john lennon’s solo catalog is going to be reissued from his highness’ original masterings is wonderful, especially because his phil spector-debut plastic ono band is one of the universe’s great underrated masterpieces. it’s the only record anyone’s ever heard that’s unbearably crisp and wildly sludgy at the same time, just like it’s both sweet and very terrifying. and go listen to harry nilsson’s cover of isolation, too.
but when will ringo starr get the same ultra royal reissue treatment? the man was a sweet-faced, outer-space, hard core boogie ace. even marge simpson loves him! richard starkey deserves better: that the metropolitan museum of art is displaying his gold-plated snare drum for his 70th birthday is merely a start.
#607: boston - more than a feeling (1976)
late at night, when the moon is shining and the down comforter is pulled up tight, there are certain dreams that every young new york financial reporter entertains from time to time. one of them is to get the chance to discuss mid-70s classic rock with cnbc star jim cramer, whose booyas resound nightly on mad money.
that dream came true for me yesterday, when mr. cramer tweeted, “bumping out with steve miller’s take the money and run—suggest some tunes you want me to use!!!”
then a little while later he said, “some excellent song suggestions. badfinger! wow, how about fog hat!”
(there was also a public enemy tweet that is too amazing too repeat here.)
i responded: “shame on you, foghat is one word.”
“max, i stand corrected,” he replied. “but you too young to know foghat!!!!!!”
fin.
#604: talking heads - uh-oh, love comes to town (1978)
some songs sound like candy and concrete at the same time. this one is a manhattan manhole cover made from an oversized lollipop.
#599: the isley brothers - pop that thang (1972, soul train)
isley brothers bassist marvin isley is dead at 56. ronald isley and ernie isley are still on earth, but marvin joins vernon isley and kelly isley in a land where their rooster-crowing, diamond-cut, anti-gravitational, fully-oiled, lip-licking funk thumps on.
