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Don Narey

Monthly Archives: April 2014

Girls on Vinyl

26 Saturday Apr 2014

Posted by djnarey in Girls on Vinyl

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Broken English, Heart Like A Wheel, I never loved a man the way that I love you, Joni Mitchell Blue, Linda Ronstadt, Marianne Faithfull, Patti Smith Easter, Pearl

I suppose one could write a book about why baby-boom women represent the most extraordinary generation of female musicians we’ve ever seen, or ever will see. They were the first generation to experience rock and roll as a mass media phenomenon while being schooled in traditions of regional music.  A preacher’s daughter in the New Bethel Baptist Church Choir, a Texas teenager drawn to the pain of Southern Blues and a Mariachi princess serenaded by Lalo Guerrero, all swooned to the same Elvis or Chuck Berry numbers. But, what they filtered through their own experience, refined on the road and reflected back in legendary recordings, was rich enough to redefine the categories of American music.

Aretha_FranklinThink of how Aretha Franklin, Janis Joplin and Linda Ronstadt drew from the same well of classic soul, remaking the songs of Otis Redding (Respect), Garnett Mimms (Cry Baby) and Betty Everett (You’re No Good).  Yet, few would describe their recordings as “cover versions.”  In fact, they didn’t simply rework those songs, they transmogrified them into the foundations for categorically unique, widely imitated and distinctly female approaches to rock music.

Complex cultural and historical changes put these revolutionary women on collision courses with war-weary fathers, eager for normalcy, and, the ones we’ve heard of, were victorious.  But battles around the kitchen table got them nothing more than a ticket to the struggle.  None of these women were plucked off a Jamaican beach, decked in haut couture and sent into a studio with Jay-Z.   None won the most votes on a t.v. show.  As they set out for The Bitter End, The Bottom Line, CBGB’s, The Palomino Club or The Troubadour, the public voted either by walking out or staying through the set.  They were as unique as they were authentic.

None of this is to disparage the current crop of female artists.  No matter what the process is, the best have a wayjanisjoplin of making their way through it. But looking at these boomers, I’m reminded of the Sandra Bernhardt line: “Stevie Nicks, Linda Ronstadt, Ann Wilson, when they sang about something it was because they either ate it, drank it, smoked it or f**ked it.”  Their music, their stories, were actually theirs to tell.  Here’s to a few of the best…

I Never Loved A Man...(1967-Atlantic) is Aretha Franklin’s tenth studio album and everyone knows this story, break-up with Columbia, match up with Jerry Wexler, honeymoon in Muscle Shoals and the rebirth of soul.

Pearl (1971-Columbia) was Janis Joplin fourth turn in the studio and the gold standard.  But despite being more refined than Cheap Thrills, everything about it, new producer, new band, a sound taking shape, a singer taking command, pointed to a beginning rather than a culmination.  She made this one of rock’s finest hours, but fate made it hers.

Blue (1971-Reprise), Joni Mitchell’s fourth recording and the game changer, David Crosby says this record put songwriters on notice that superficiality no longer cut it. But, despite the tricky chords and grown-up lyrics, the singable “Carey” has always been my favorite.  More than few July mornings I’ve woken up with a burn on my shoulders, sand in my hair and that song in my head…”Let’s have a round for these freaks and these soldiers, a round for these friends of mine, let’s have another round for the bright red devil who keeps me in this tourist down.” Mitchell’s songs, so intricately personal, always feel like they have someone’s name and address attached.  Sometimes, though, it feels like yours.

Linda Ronstadt Portrait SessionHeart Like A Wheel (1974-Capitol) was Linda Ronstadt’s fifth solo project and ninth as principal vocalist. Widely considered the blueprint for a generation of female  country singers, it’s also what happens when a Mariachi kid grows on American Bandstand, then ends up in room with L.A.’s most accomplished session players, Nashville’s top fiddlers, Detroit’s finest background singers and Emmylou Harris.  HLAW has never been out of print in 40 years, but just in case, it’s permanently archived in the Library on Congress.

Easter (1978-Arista) was Patti Smith’s third album and not Horses. Horses is the one you’re supposed to say is your favorite cause that’s what all the lists say. But, seriously, if the place was on fire and you could only save one of them you’d be thinking “‘Til Victory,” “Rock ‘n Roll Nigger”  “25th Floor,” and admit it….“Because The Night.”  This was the one that broke through to mainstream, but that doesn’t mean anything was compromised. I’ve heard it said that the world has never seen a woman quite like her; the world has never seen a person quite like her.

Broken English (1979-Island) Depending on how you see things, this was either Marianne Faithfull’s seventh studio album or her first.  Because what rose up out of the ashes when this former pop princess, heroine addict and Weillian chanteuse got back on her feet sounded like complete reincarnation.  Every dirty word (and there are plenty), raw emotion and cracked vocal is delivered with such matter-of-factness.  She’s not trying to shock or impress you, just telling what she knows for you to take or leave as you will.  Whatever you decide, isn’t going to make any difference to her either way.

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When The Finish Line is Home

15 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by djnarey in What I'm Seeing

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Boston bombings, Boston chracter, Boston marathon, Boston paracholism, Boston rude, Boston spirit

Whether you’re a runner, a spectator, or just a guy who loves this town, each of us has his own memories to reconcile, his own peace to make.  For me, today is a confirmation of everything I’d thought about how much would change the day two bombs exploded on Boylston Street.

Nothing.  You know, some things just can not be changed.

Even in the heat of the moment, tragedy still unfolding, with the impact far from fully-realized, still trying to register what had happened,  I just didn’t share the view that anything had permanently changed.  I heard the cries and felt the pain of everyone who said, “this is it, nothing will be ever be the same about the marathon, the city or its people.”  But, to me,  that’s not how life works.

It’s not that I didn’t understand the scope of the tragedy or the cowardice of men who would launch sneak-attacks on people who are–in every sense of the word–stronger than them and, even worse, people who aren’t.  I understood, to whatever extent possible, the life-altering pain, confusion, grief, anger.   But some things are just too big to be changed. That’s not romanticism or defiance or hope and, God knows, it is not victim’s consolation.  It’s just a fact.

Every Patriot’s Day something big happens here, in Boston, and it’s not just the world’s oldest continuous marathon.  As South-Enders wander across the Corridor and North Enders cut across Haymarket and even the folks over in Jamaica Plain make that rare journey across Mass. Ave (or at least think about it), the rest of the world squeezes in and lines of demarcation fade away.  A hardscrabble town cracks a smile and it’s truly a sight to behold.

I’ve seen that most clearly through the eyes of others.  One of  the many spectacular Patriot’s Days I remember, I wandered into the crowd drifting into Copley from Tremont. It was about 4:30, all the elite runners had long been shuttled off.  But, like a lot of locals who’d opt to avoid the traffic, crowds, or just do other things that day, I’ve always prefered to show up after the fanfare just cheer on those last stragglers.  It’s always a small local crowd left to to encourage our own, or those who become our own that one day a year, those who finish the race on sheer grit.

This is a day when infamous parochialism melts like the March frost, Bostonians are actually willing to make eye-contact as though they recognize you, and the do.  You came here to do something, to win a battle we don’t know about, take a prize can not see and and we know that.

I was walking across the church yard with a friend, a transplant from D.C.. He was on his cell phone.  He was on his cell phone a lot back then with friends in Washington or family in Arizona.  Boston isn’t really an easy place to break into and it can leave the best of ’em longing for home. But when we reached the front of the library on Dartmouth, a few yards from the finish line, I noticed his conversation wasn’t about a place he missed, but the place he finally discovered a year after moving.  He wasn’t complaining to the person on the other line, he was sharing.  He was bragging.

Flanked by the BPL’s bronze goddesses of art and science on the left and the Trinity Church on the right, he was describing this newfound place.  People were out, smiling, talking, welcoming and it didn’t seem that big, cold or dark a city after all. It was like he just found home, on Patriot’s Day, in the place he’d merely been living all year.

Buoyed by the lengthening days, the blossoming spring and promise of another summer in a coastal town, The Marathon, more than any other event reveals the spirit of this city.  Parochialism starts to look familial and people don’t seem as defensive as they do protective.  It’s the time when people get hooked and feel a sense of ownership in a city that will end up owning them in some way.  So even if we don’t say “hi” to every random person we pass or ask where you’re from or care whether or not “y’all come back,” this place has a way of revealing itself in those lovely, long-awaited, shared moments.

When it happens, when you get it, you’ll forever understand Bostonians because you will be one too.

On Monday there’ll be the painful memories that’ll last forever, but there will also be an unassailable sense of community.  It will be triumphant and irresistible like it always has. If anything, it’ll be stronger and that’s never going to change.  Not because of two guys with bombs, or ten guys with bombs or even ten-thousand.

Some things can never be changed.

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