Tag Archives: bands and artists alphabetized under F

Notes Toward a Musical Autobiography: Volume XI, Letter F

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What follows is a continuing exploration of all the music in my cd collection for which the artist or the band name begins with the letter F.  Let’s begin with this.  F this.  Fishbone and The Flaming Lips, Ben Folds Five, bookends or markers for my 1990’s, perhaps the three most influential and inspiring bands for me in the entire decade.  It’s gonna be pretty rocking from here on out! Hold on.

Fishbone, “Give a Monkey a Brain, and He’ll Swear He’s the Center of the Universe.” These ska-punkers from the late 80’s became so absolutely rocking in the nineties, and this record and its predecessor, “The Reality of My Surrounding,” simply blew my late twenties and early thirty-something brain.  Listening to”Swim” and “Servitude” together, the opening tracks, I form a one-man mosh pit in my basement and bang my head while sorting the laundry.  The density of some of these arrangements, “Properties of Propaganda” and “Lemon Meringue” in particular, is awe inspiring still. These guys, perhaps more than any other nineties band, combined the raw energy of punk and grunge, the soul and funk from the 70s, the outrage of the Black American civil rights struggle, and married it to some of the most exceptional musicianship in rock. Holy shit these guys were good.  The memories this music stirs, almost entirely positive, are coupled with bittersweetness–as most of my closest companions of that era are sadly not now a part of my life, or at least, not like they used to be. It’s still joyful to listen to this, nevertheless. I may have to spin “Reality” as well. Hanging out with Fishbone, it’s really difficult to have “Everyday Sunshine” and “Sunless Saturday” missing from the playlist!

Damn, Fishbone blew my Boston Acoustics.

The Fixx, “React.” As important as this band was to me in my late teens and early twenties, I never replaced my vinyl copies of “Reach the Beach” and “Phantoms” in my cd collection.  So this is the next best thing, I suppose, a live album from 1987 that includes really the best of those two albums, a few tracks from the debut Fixx, and some other odds and ends. Save for a few exceptions, I have never really been a fan of the live album, but this one is sonically pretty clean and the performances are strong and the audience noise is mostly absent.  Here’s an 80’s band that has continued, to this very day, to work and write new tunes and tour. And they have the distinction of being the only heroes of my young life as a musician that I would have the honor to share a stage with. In 1999 and again a few years later, Here Comes Everybody got to open up for The Fixx at the Aladdin Theater here in Portland.  Quite the heady experience. A peak moment in my life as a musician.

The Flaming Lips, “The Soft Bulletin.” John Curtis, a good friend of mine, probably around the time this record came out in 1999, while he lived in Minneapolis for a time, sent me a couple of tracks from this album on a mix cd in the mail.  A mix cd! “A Spoonful Weighs a Ton” and “Bugging,'” I think, were the tunes he sent. I thought maybe there was something wrong with my stereo, but I was intrigued. It took me a long time after that, maybe even a year, maybe more, to take the plunge to buy “The Soft Bulletin” album, but when I did, and spun it for the first time, from “Race for the Prize”  onward, I was having a kind of religious experience. This, it seemed, was a wholly new kind of weirdness. I don’t know. I hope I haven’t said this a dozen times before about a dozen different records, but I might say that this is probably one of my top 5 favorite albums of all time. It was and remains a revolutionary record.

Somewhere, I had heard the band’s early and only “hit” thus far, “She Don’t Use Jelly,” and I was charmed but underwhelmed, so much so that I didn’t realize when I got hold of “The Soft Bulletin” that it was the same band. Where to begin: how about with the snare drum slap and harp flourish that kicks off the anthemic melody of strings and synth that begin “Race for the Prize,” the first track on the album. When the vocal enters for the first verse, high, tentative, imprecise, awkward, singing about two scientists in a competition to discover some kind of monumental cure, for what we never learn, the band comes way down (sonically, it’s as if it’s a different band or a different recording altogether), and I am totally sucked in, emotionally invested, because, after all, “Theirs is to win, if it kills them; they’re just humans with wives and children.” The second tune, “A Spoonful Weighs a Ton,” seems to continue with this science fiction and physics theme, something about a group of people trying to lift up the sun, and how much only a spoonful of this star-stuff would weigh.  Holy shit.  It’s just so flipping weird, but oddly, at least for me, felt not like a discombobulated and cold absurdity, but intensely specific and emotionally evocative.

What’s the emotional content here?  At first it’s joy, then wonder, and then, in the third track, when Wayne sings, “I accidentally touched my head and noticed that I had been bleeding.” I just want to weep. It’s almost incomprehensible.  And then he sings, in the same song, “I stood up and I said yeah.”  On the surface, it’s such a dumb lyric, but coupled with the delivery and the production (which always seems to indicate something may be wrong with your stereo) and the cool vibe that is created by all these things in combo, this declaration and things like “I accidentally touched my  head” seem like the most profound lyrics ever written. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that listening to both “Waitin’ for Superman” and “Suddenly Everything Has Changed” has on many occasions brought me inexplicably to tears.

Wayne Coyne is a terrible singer. No question. And he’s even worse live.  The one time I saw them play I was convinced he was sick–but realized by watching videos of the band live that that’s how he always sounds!  But his genius for big philosophical ideas embedded in pop music trappings, his gift for melody despite the imprecision of his singing, his knack for capturing the absurdities of being human added to the almost symphonic musical genius of his bandmates and longtime producer Dave Friedman–these things are a heady mix indeed. I have been loyal to this band ever since.  They’re super frustrating because they’re always changing it up–but that is also their super strength and what makes them so vital and interesting.

So excited about revisiting this band, I had to spin “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots” as well, the album immediately after “The Soft Bulletin,” and again was blown away by the deceptive silliness; deceptive, because, despite the sci-fi goofiness of the album’s concept, deep, zen-like wisdom permeates. “All we have is now. All we’ve ever had is now.”And I’ve had “Do You Realize” on the brain for nearly a week now. Another beautiful record that nevertheless makes you believe there might be something wrong with your stereo. I must say that I got a bit stuck on these two albums, listening to them both three times in succession right next to each other in the van’s cd changer.

Perhaps, autobiographically speaking, the reason I found The Flaming Lips so captivating was that when they found me, at the height, or rather, the deepest depths of an early mid-life crisis, a time in my mid-thirties when I did not know what was up, when I was more lost than I had ever been in my life, when everything seemed on the verge of falling apart,  this band brought joy and hope into my life. In some ways, they saved me. Or, at least, they were with me all the way through.

Postscript: I just bought the bonus 20 year anniversary edition of “Clouds Taste Metallic,” the preceding album to “The Soft Bulletin,” and another essential classic from The Flaming Lips. These three albums, I think, are greater than anything they did before or since.  I’m really hoping they make another pop record soon.

I am so bummed about my blown Boston Acoustics.  I’m doing much of my listening now in the studio, using the computer as a cd player, having to look at the big dumb monitor, constantly teasing me with Facebook and other such dumb internet things while I listen. Not optimum. And then when I’m not in front of the studio computer monitor, I’m in the car, listening to records in chunks of three or four songs, depending on how far I need to travel.  Not optimum, either.

Flight of the Conchords, “Self Titled.” I don’t know if these songs are good or if it was the television show that was good. I know the show was good, but I don’t trust that the songs aren’t successful only because I know the visual gags that accompanied them in the show. I guess it doesn’t matter. I can’t help but start giggling on the opening track, “Foux du Fafa,” where our intrepid New Zealand pop singing heroes try to pick up a French girl by pretending to speak the language. These guys have great pop sensibilities and perfect comic timing.  Perhaps the most successful and talented novelty band in the history of pop music. It’s impossible to listen to these guys without smiling and occasionally laughing out loud. “She’s so hot she’s making me sexist.” But “Bowie,” this time around, is not quite as funny. Touching, rather.  “Bowie’s in space,” indeed.

Ben Folds Five, “Self Titled.” The debut album from North Carolinians Ben Folds Five was the second BFF album I bought, but I think it was the record that had the most profound effect on me.  I was a child influenced by Elton, and this was like Elton John for the 21st century.  This record was released in 1995, but I think it was at least 1999 or maybe even a bit later when I heard this band and this record for the first time. Here was the inspiration and the permission I needed to front a rock band that did not feature a guitar anywhere in the mix. Thank you, Ben. Here’s another songwriter who marries all the things I love about pop music into one tidy package: expert musicianship, humor, profundity of idea, emotional resonance, and high energy. Is there a greater pop song about finding one’s way than “Philosophy”? Is there a more profound tribute to the nerd navigating the punk rock scene than “Underground”? Is there a greater sports tune ever recorded (and this coming from a person who is inherently NOT interested in sports) than “Boxing”? I think not. I have become super loyal to Ben Folds.  I have all the BFF albums and every solo record Ben Folds recorded after, even the one he did with William Shatner, which is fucking brilliant, by the way.  And funny as hell. Here’s an artist for whom I could happily spin every album in my collection, but because I listen to him so regularly anyway, and because some day in my life time I’d like to get through the flipping alphabet, I’ll stop here at this brilliant debut album from one of my favorite bands of all time and certainly my favorite band to emerge from the 90’s.

I don’t want to give the rest of the artists in the F section short shrift, but I think it’s a necessity. I didn’t realize I’d write 1000 words on The Flaming Lips alone, and I’m anxious to get to the G spot. So the following artists, some of whom I love and will listen to their records all the way through, will get the haiku treatment. Sort of.

Brian Kenny Fresno, “The Big Finish.” The cd jewell case has a sticker on it that announces a “free bong tool inside!” I think this was a ruse. I don’t even understand, not being a pot smoker, what kind of bong tool might be concealed inside a cd jewell case and I don’t remember receiving anything that might fit this description.  Fresno is a one man band, a guy who plays a thing called a Chapman Stick (essentially a 12 string bass guitar) and sings crazy funny songs. He’s a nut. I saw him play once and bought this cd. He’s a phenomenal musician and a maniacal performer. He’s like a progressive rock farm boy. He wears overalls and sings songs about rescuing dogs, dentists in China, and stoner detectives, among other things. Not easy listening, and much more engaging in concert than it is on record.

Robbie Fulks, “Let’s Kill Saturday Night.” I saw this brilliant guy open up for Ben Folds and I was blown away. One of the only country singers I can listen to, partly because he rocks, partly because he’s funny and smart, but mostly because he’s politically a lefty.  All of this is pure gold, but most amazing, perhaps, is the country music echo of XTC’s “Dear God.” Fulks’ tune is “God Isn’t Real,” and it is every bit as scathing an indictment of religion as is Andy Partridge’s tune from the “Skylarking” album.

fun., “Some Nights.” I wrote an entire blog entry about going to a fun. concert, so I feel justified in keeping it short here. Their first record rocked my socks to such a degree that I felt for a few moments that they were my band, and then they became hugely successful with the hit single “We Are Young” from this record and attracted an audience of 12 year old girls. You may make “fun” of me, but I don’t care; I still think they’re really good. You cannot argue with the skill of this singer and the sophistication of these arrangements and the emotional power of some of these words. However, if there’s anything that makes this otherwise stellar record suck a bit, it’s the use of Autotune, not to correct bad singing, but to synthesize otherwise good singing, which is really a dumb thing.

Down with Autotune.

The only time autotune is acceptable is when it’s used to make a spoken word thing into a song. That can be really funny.

Fugazi, “Steady Diet of Nothing.” Before spinning this disc, I can recollect absolutely nothing about it other than, at some point, I had learned that Fugazi was an important and influential band and that I should probably know about them. A sign, of course, that they had a minimal impact on me. At the close of the 80’s and at the beginning of the 90’s, they were still waving the punk flag and, I think, influenced a lot of the musicians that would be central to the grunge era. As I’m listening, I remember the tunes, and I kind of remember thinking, this is cool, but it’s not melodic, and it’s not beautiful, and I’m no longer 18 years old, and while I can get behind the energy and the punk experimentation, my boat is decidedly not floated, so I will only listen to it a few times and then put it away. It’s like Devo meets Gang of Four and the Sex Pistols, with odd time signatures and perhaps a little bit more instrumental finesse, but not nearly as tuneful as any of those groups and ultimately, for me at least, nowhere near as interesting.

That concludes the effing F section of the CD collection.  I don’t know when I will get to the G spot. I’m in a play and writing a poem every day for the next month.  Who knows. I might be able to squeeze it in. The artists and bands in the G section may be calling for me. It’s a short list of some truly great stuff: Gabriel, Galactic Cowboys, Gang of Four, Geldof, Geggy Tah, Grandaddy, David Gray, The Grays, Guided by Voices.  I’m excited. Are you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Notes Toward a Musical Autobiography: Volume X, Letter F

Happy and Totally Belated New Year, everyone. It appears that I took the entire months of January and February off from blogging. 2016 finds me having barely survived the first semester of my 28th year of teaching (which, disappointingly, turns out to be only my 26th), feeling gratitude for a new beginning with new classes, taking in some meditation practice, gearing up for a role as Lord Capulet in Romeo and Juliet, and, when I have the opportunity, still working my way through the music collection in alphabetical order, listening to at least one compact disc from every artist or band represented there. Here it is, March, spring break, a year and a month into this wacky project, and I stumble fearlessly into the letter F. It may have to come in two volumes; there’s a whole lot of really great shit here.

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Donald Fagen, “The Nightfly.” I think, I’m almost 90% certain, that this album, the first solo record by one half of the genius behind the phenomenal Steely Dan, was one of my first compact disc purchases ever! It’s such a groovy, cool record, and listening to it now it feels just as groovy and cool.  It makes me want to dance. And so my son and I bip around the basement to “I.G.Y.” and “Ruby Baby” and my favorite: “New Frontier.”  

Faith No More, “Angel Dust.” Here’s an unlikely transition for you.  After dancing with my son to Donald Fagan, I put this on. He made me turn it off.  The boy is not yet used to noisy music.  Will not tolerate the heavy rock. I have to come back to this one way later.  Yesterday I spin it, doing the laundry, taking a head banging selfie that I posted on Facebook.  There’s something about this band, as dark and sardonic as their lyrics can be, that absolutely fills me with a strange kind of joy, a jump up and down kind of glee, pure energy born out of heavy guitars, explosive drums, and a vocal that is constantly shifting between frightful screaming and beautiful melody.  Mike Patton, I think, is one of the most gifted singers (and weirdest) to come out of the 90’s grunge scene.

Jason Falkner, “Can You Still Feel?” The first time I heard Jason Falkner was on the first record by the stupendously awesome and terribly short-lived band called Jellyfish.  I won’t say anything more about that until I get to the J’s in the alphabet. Suffice it to say  that anything by anyone in that band would pretty much have to be monumentally good, and almost everything Falkner has done has been exactly that. Not as flashy or as retro as Jellyfish, his talent is in writing inescapably hooky and memorable, finely crafted and expertly played power pop rock tunes while spinning super sharp lyric lines and singing really, really well.  I’m not sure that he had a single lead singing role on that Jellyfish record, so in that band his talents as a singer and composer remained mysterious.

Fantastic Plastic Machine, “The Fantastic Plastic Machine.” Lounge-jazz sixties-kitsch, Austin Powers meets a Japanese Beck. “Mr. Salesman” is a gem. I don’t recall how I discovered this record and the time I spent listening to it must not have made a giant impression on me, because, despite the cool vibe of that one single and a few other groovy moments, the tunes did not stick, did not animate my life in any way.

Maynard Ferguson, “Footpath Café.” I’ve spun this record maybe once or twice since I bought it in 1992.  I don’t have very much of this kind of thing in my collection, however, from the time I played in the high school jazz band, I have felt a kind of joyfulness associated with big band music. It’s not a thing I very often choose to spin, but listening to this now brings all that back. The musical skill and finesse evidenced here, especially in the drums, is undeniable and inspiring. I’ve alway admired drummers that could swing really fast and push all those accents and hits along the way. It makes my head bop up and down like a bobble-head. I could do without the singing, though. My least favorite tracks on this record are the ones that feature a vocalist.

Bryan Ferry, “As Time Goes By.” First heard this cat sing in the 80’s on Roxy Music’s “Avalon” album, which, years from now, when I get to the R section, I will have to spin. Actually, that’s not true. The first time I heard Ferry was on the 70’s hit “Love Is The Drug,” but when I heard and then bought “Avalon” as a young adult, I had no idea that it was the same band. At any rate, Ferry is one of those chameleon artists, all over the map, from jazz standards to Dylan cover albums, and that’s one of the things that makes him cool. This record of early jazz-pop standards from the 30’s is transportive, magical, and perfect for Ferry’s croon.  This record caught me, in my mid 3o’s, all sentimental and sappy and trying very hard to fall in love again and succeeding in the most disastrous way possible.

The Fifth Dimension, “Master Hits.” OMG. Some of these tunes, when I was a kid, I mistook as tunes by The Mamas and the Papas, perhaps because (as a little bit of googling proves) “Go Where You Wanna Go” was performed by both groups. No matter. Sooner or later I figured it out. “Wedding Bell Blues” (or as I would recognize it, “Marry Me, Bill,”) “One Less Bell to Answer,” and “(Last Night) I Didn’t Get To Sleep At All” (God, I love those parentheses), finally gave it away (that’s no Mama Cass). Another group that, while none of their records made their way into the Jarmer household, were nevertheless constant childhood companions, as they were played incessantly on the radio–and who didn’t listen to the radio in the 70s? These are truly  great tunes.  I’m adding this to the digital library post haste.

The Fingers, “Prophets and Casanovas.” From what I can tell from a quick and dirty internet search, this band no longer exists, didn’t exist for very long, and perhaps, only made one record, this one here in my collection. The reason they’re important: we (as Here Comes Everybody) shared a stage with them in one of our late nineties or early oughts tours to Los Angeles, and hosted them once, I think, on one of their tours up here to Portland. A highly capable and energetic power pop band, the individual members of which, have probably gone on to do interesting and solid musical things. We’ve lost all track of them.  Brief blast from the past.

Neil Finn, “Dizzying Heights.” I decide to write about the most recent Neil Finn record (I think I have them all) because I have been listening to this one almost non-stop in the car for the better part of a year. Neil Finn seems to me to be about the wisest of pop song writers working. He’s smart and thoughtful and his tunes often have a deep emotional resonance despite the fact that the grooves are super toe-tapping and melodically interesting to boot. This record is a moody one, dark in places, weirder than most other Neil Finn records. The opening track “Impressions” is this slow, dirge-like swing thing with a bass drum pattern big enough to rattle your insides while a beautiful vocal whispers overhead. Bluesy, dark, but lovely. Looks like I’ll be hanging out with the Finn family for awhile. Ever since Split Enz rocked my new wave world in the 80’s and Crowded House followed fast on those heels, I’ve been loyal to brothers Neil and Tim–and now to the offspring, Liam Finn, Neil’s son, who has two or three records of his own by now.

Liam Finn, “I’ll Be Lightning.” Listening to Liam Finn is as strange as it was to listen to Julian or Sean Lennon.  In all cases, it’s quite possible to just close your eyes and hear the voices of their famous dads. Almost everything Liam does here would fit quite nicely on a Neil Finn record. He’s perhaps a little more adventurous and noisy than papa in the rhythmic and production departments, but the songs are not nearly as sophisticated, the playing is not nearly as professional, and here, I think, we’re listening to a songwriter who’s learning and totally devoid of any self consciousness–both highly admirable traits. This record came out in 2008. It’s been almost that long since I spun it last. It’s a lovely listen.

Tim Finn, “Self Titled.” Tim’s second or third solo record after his departure from Split Enz and a couple of years before his collaboration in 1991 with brother Neil on “Woodface” (maybe the greatest Crowded House album ever), this 1989 record closes out the decade for me and my world. The 80’s were my musical adolescence, both as a listener and a performer, and as I was learning how to write my own music and dreaming the dream and growing up into an adult and getting married too young and struggling to get through college, the Finn brothers had my back, along with XTC and Peter Gabriel and David Sylvian and Kate Bush and Laurie Anderson and The Smiths.  This Tim Finn record: I haven’t listened to it for such a long time, but as soon as it spins, my early 20’s come swirling back at me: finishing that English degree, starting grad school to become a teacher, having to move out of the love shack, moving into the basement of my in-laws, playing badminton in the driveway, drinking beer with my brother, the Chevy 10 van and the Buick Le Sabre, my first teaching job, moving out of the basement.  A hugely optimistic era.  And this record seems to capture that spirit. Tim, like his brother, is so gifted as a singer, but the tambour of his voice is distinctive, easy to tell from Neil’s, more vibrato, more theatrics, in some ways a more conventionally pop rock voice, but angelic at times and always precise. These cats did not need autotune. There’s some groovy rhythm section stuff here: Tony Levin on bass and Jerry Marotta on drums. Tim surrounded himself with heavy hitters on this record. Produced by Mitchell Froom of Crowded House and Suzanne Vega fame. I can’t believe this record isn’t in the digital library.  Consider it done. Somewhere I caught the rumor that Tim Finn was not healthy, psychologically speaking. I hope that’s a fib.  I hope he’s well. The Finns have brought so much joy into my life.

Well, I think that’s all the F I can take for today. It’s Monday of my spring break.  I’ve got rehearsals this week for Romeo and Juliet and lines to commit to memory, but other than that, my responsibilities are few and there may be more time this week for listening, for finishing up with the fabulous letter F, for another blog entry or two, and perhaps, for a full emergence from blogging hibernation. Even though it’s raining cats and dogs, IT’S SPRINGTIME, YO!

 

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