The Post-Rockist

Lesley Gore - Maybe I Know
Lesley Gore - Sunshine Lollipops & Rainbows
(from The Best of Lesley Gore)

Most recognized for her song “It’s My Party” (and I’ll cry if I want to…), the anthem of 16-year-old drama queens everywhere, Lesley Gore’s voice is not particularly pleasing – it’s a bit scratchy and piercing, much like a 16-year-old drama queen.  Her songs, however, were perfect for her, which was perhaps the biggest problem with her career.  Although she has tried to continue recording music, she never really escaped that typecasting of the whiney teenager. 
 
But who cares!  I still love it!  It’s bubblegum and twee and such a perfect example of 1960’s girly music.   It’s got touches of sexism – “That’s the Way Boys Are” (ironic since she is a lesbian) and “Maybe I Know” where she bemoans, ”Maybe I know that’s he’s been a-cheating, maybe I know that he’s been untrue, but what can I do?”   Indeed, Lesley, what can you do?  Sing a peppy song, complete with hand claps and a lively horn section!  Weren’t the 1960s a grand time?
 
Following suit, she capitalized on the success of her classic single “It’s My Party” with an unnecessary sequel, her revenge song “Judy’s Turn to Cry,” in which she gloats about having Johnny, who cheated on her with Judy, leave Judy for Lesley.  I mean, you don’t mess with Lesley Gore.  Although I think it would have been much more fun for her to sing about breaking Johnny’s heart by dating Judy.
 
However, my all-time favorite of Lesley’s songs is “Sunshine Lollipops & Rainbows.”  The song just burrows into your brain and I find myself with an uncontrollable urge to sing it at completely inappropriate times. It’s irresistible – I bet you’re singing it now.

Dionne Warwick - Do You Know The Way To San Jose?
Dionne Warwick - I’ll Never Fall In Love Again
(from The Definitive Collection)

Okay, I can wait here while you laugh for a minute.  I know that in recent years Dionne Warwick is more known for her work with the Psychic Friends Network than her awesome music, but seriously, let’s just try and overlook that for the time bein.

I am unashamed in my love of Dionne Warwick, perhaps it is a result of nostalgia from my childhood as my mom insisted upon listening to adult contemporary radio stations. Pretty much everything on those stations are pure liquid crap, and whenever I heard a Dionne Warwick song it stood out because it was one of the few artists (if not the only artist) who didn’t suck.  You can tell she has a powerful voice, but she’s not too flashy with it (I’m talking about you, Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston).  The songs, mostly written by Burt Bacharach, have simple lyrics that everybody can pick up quickly.  She is my all-time favorite karaoke artist (ABBA is a close second).

I think most people’s favorite Dionne song is “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?”  I’ll admit – it’s not my favorite.  It’s deceivingly upbeat, but when you really listen to the lyrics, it’s kind of sad.  It’s about crushed dreams – moving to Los Angeles to pursue a dream and then realizing years later that you don’t have any hope left and you haven’t made any friends.  It’s about moving on, realizing that friends are more important that some cockamamie dream to become famous.  But the highlight of the song are the exquisite background singers chiming in with their “waa waa waa’s.” 

I love the song “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.”  I think it is the most under appreciated Dionne Warwick song.  Burt Bacharach is genius with the lyrics: “What do you get when you fall in love?  You get enough germs to catch pneumonia,” or “What do you get when you fall in love?  You get another pin to burst your bubble.”  She sings the song very matter of fact and effortlessly; it is a much more challenging song to sing than she lets on.  This song was my favorite break-up song during my high school years.  What can I say – I was a strange teenager.

I always think of Dionne Warwick in the 1970s wearing a sequin poncho, but the bulk of my favorite songs came out in the 1960s.  Interestingly, she actually had relatively few hits in the 1970s – her career was more active in the ’60s and the ’80s.

-Posted by Kim

Connie Francis - Stupid Cupid
Connie Francis - He’s My Dreamboat
(from Connie Francis Gold)

I consider myself a fan of “oldies.”  If I am forced to listen to music on the radio, then 95 percent of the time I will be listening to an oldies station, and it is not at all unknown to hear me calling in my requests to the local oldies stations.  However, growing up in a suburb of Detroit, most of the music on the oldies radio was Motown.  And, as great as Motown is, I don’t think I had ever heard anything by Connie Francis before I purchased her two-disc Gold album from BMG music service. 

Connie’s music is quintessentially 1950s: her voice is sultry in the character of most 1940s’ female singers, but the themes of her songs are much more simplistic so that teenagers of the day could identify with their dramas.  It invokes images of chocolate malts at the soda shop and sock hops in the school gymnasium. 

“Stupid Cupid” was the first song to catch my attention; then again, I am a sucker for any song with hand claps.  The sound effect of Cupid’s arrow thwacking its target was a bold choice – it runs the risk of sounding too much like a wacky morning radio show’s attempt at humor but it ends up being charming.  The song is about heartbreak sung from a teenager’s point of view: “I can’t do my homework and I can’t keep straight / I meet him every morning about half past eight,” but it isn’t whiney at all and is really fun to listen to.  I can’t imagine that it would make my teenage self, all too familiar with heartbreak, feel comforted.  It’s more a song for adults who want to feel nostalgic and think about that silly teenage puppy love we all experienced.

“Dreamboat” has got to be my all-time favorite cheesy term of endearment, so imagine my glee when I first heard the song “He’s My Dreamboat.”  If you share my affection for all things “dreamy,” then this song will not disappoint.  “He’s my dreamboat, asleep in English class / He’s my dreamboat, mowing his folks’ grass / He’s my dreamboat with the dreamy, dreamy eyes.”  Then the male background singers chime in with the bass “bomp ba bomp ba bomp.”  It’s awesome!  Connie’s dreamy!

Perhaps one of the reasons that Connie’s music is so great is because of her use of background singers.  They seem to be present in all her songs, adding their doting bass harmonies to accentuate Connie’s whipsmart vocals.  They help to set the tone whether the tune is lighthearted, upbeat, dreamy, or, in a few instances, serious.  I hope that you, dear readers, find as much pleasure in Connie Francis’s music that I have.

Brenda Lee - Dynamite (1957 single version)
(from The Definitive Collection) 

And while we’re on the subject of powerful, girly teen idols from the 1950s, here’s a quick taste of Brenda Lee belting out “Dynamite.” With a voice as explosive as that, it’s hard to imagine that she recorded this when she was only 13 years old.

-Posted by Kim

In honor of Women’s History Month, the Post-Rockist is taking a journey through time to examine over 70 years’ of music made by broads, dames, ladies, chicks, gals, and dolls. Or, better yet, women. This is by no means an attempt to capture every important contribution over the years; instead, it’s more a review of some of the kitschy, poppy, and girly music variety I have found myself enamored with recently. Some beauteous, some blemished. All women. We start then, in the 1940s.

The Andrews Sisters - Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy
The Andrews Sisters - Gimme Some Skin, My Friend
(from The Andrews Sisters’ Greatest Hits)

Chances are, if you’ve heard any kind of World War II-era music, even in passing or in movie soundtracks, then you’ve heard the Andrews Sisters. They are three sisters from Minnesota, whose rise to fame singing patriotic, upbeat swing songs like “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” kept spirits high during the undoubtedly frightening early 1940s. Even when Patty, Maxene, and LaVerne are singing together it sounds like a single voice until they break into unique harmonies. The syncopated, jazzy rhythms make it impossible to not tap your toes. The Andrews Sisters’ popularity exploded across the Atlantic from the United States to Europe, and legend has it that despite being banned by the Third Reich, the Andrews Sisters were so popular that their albums were smuggled into Germany labeled as “Hitler’s Marching Songs.”

Their music is quintessential of their time – blatantly racist at times, a bit rough around the edges but so girly and sweet it’s hard to hold it against them. In the song “Give Me Some Skin, My Friend” they instruct their listeners on how to give high fives: “If you want to shake my hand like they do in Harlem, stick your hand right out and shout, give me some skin, my friend.” In “Rum and Coca Cola,” an unbelievably catchy song, they sing about going to Trinidad with fake Caribbean accents. At one point in the songs between verses one of the sisters moans, “Oh, you vexed me, you vexed me,” in a subtle reference to voodoo stereotypes of the region.

Racism aside, The Andrews Sisters are power singers and would put any of today’s girl groups to shame (Pussycat Dolls, I’m looking at you!).

Peggy Lee - I Love Being Here With You
(from Six Feet Under: Soundtrack)

Peggy Lee - Mañana (Is Soon Enough For Me)
(from The Best of Miss Peggy Lee)

I’ll admit that I first noticed Peggy Lee’s music on the Six Feet Under soundtrack. The album included only one song by her – “I Love Being Here With You.” It was such a powerful song that I couldn’t help but listen to it over and over. The music is layered with different elements of percussion, a compelling horn section, and Peggy Lee’s sultry voice, sense of humor, and impeccable timing.

Peggy Lee is best known for her hit “Fever,” sung by Americal Idol hopefuls everywhere. I can assure you that none of those wannabes have ever been able to hold a candle to the impeccable Ms. Lee. The key to Peggy Lee is her ability to know when to hold back and when to belt it all out. She has great instincts and makes the songs interesting, always leaving the listener wanting more. She was never pigeon-holed into one genre of music, singing jazz, blues, showtunes, and swing over her 50-year career.

“Mañana (Is Soon Enough For Me)” is an unforgettable song. It is so unabashedly racist that in recent years there has been criticism about including it on her Best Of album. It is difficult to reconcile the enjoyment I feel listening to the song, the catchy melody, the toe-tapping beat and the shock and embarrassment I feel listening to the lyrics. It plays on Mexican stereotypes and Peggy sings in a really bad fake accent. It’s so absurd that it’s kind of funny today, but I can imagine how damaging a song like this could really be when it was released in the 1940s.

In the end, I don’t know if it’s possible to excuse the racism inherent in these tunes, or even advisable to attempt a defense. Still, these women were outstanding singers and entertainers, and I don’t know if it’s fair to discount their entire catalogue based on a few extraneous examples. Maybe you can only look on these songs as historical artefacts, or maybe you can laugh at their own silliness and take the songs as songs. Whichever the case, feel free to discuss your opinion in the comments.

Next week we move forward to the 1950s.

-Posted by Kim

The Walkmen, ft. Ferraby Lionheart and the Broken West
The Southgate House
Newport, KY: March 12, 2007

The Walkmen - Another One Goes By
(from A Hundred Miles Off)

The Walkmen - Loop de Loop
(from “Pussycats” Starring The Walkmen)

For a band I was never too wild about to begin with, I found myself watching the Walkmen perform for the third time in little over a year. Of course, the band had undergone some major stylistic changes during that year. Most notably, they had gone from being the critical darlings behind two stark, stunning records released over the course of three years, to being the archaic adventurers who released two unusual, critically lukewarm albums over the course of a few months. But it was these last two albums that interested me most. The mariachi horns and Eddie Cochran rhythms of A Hundred Miles Off; and the schizophrenic, primal scream boogie-woogie energy of the note-for-note Nilsson cover album “Pussycats.” Something was going on here. These albums had daring. The dubious lack of fanfare around these albums gave them a sense of danger that I couldn’t find in their previous releases. I was curious to see how that played out on stage.

Opening for the Walkmen were Ferraby Lionheart and the Broken West. Taken as a whole, the bill looked like a cross between Newsies and Quadrophrenia, with every other person plainly decked out in tweed jacket, tight black jeans, and a stone cold scowl. Maybe that’s not entirely fair, as Ferraby’s sullen expression was due mainly to the dark shadows his wide-brimmed cap cast over his face. His voice was thin and reedy, like a malnourished Rufus Wainwright, but he didn’t sing as though he had a scowl. His gentle, West Coast folksiness carefully drew out each note over lazy bojangles melodies. Despite the drummer’s misplaced gusto, the sparse set-up wasn’t enough to convey the whimsical (or so I have read) nature of the songs’ arrangements. Lionheart’s tiny voice on solo acoustic numbers was more or less lost among the quiet murmur of the Monday night crowd.

The Broken West, with the addition of extra guitar players, a keyboard, and a trumpeter, were louder on stage. But despite the added volume, there wasn’t much else to offer. There were verses and choruses, I’m sure, and a steady stream of mid-level energy throughout, but nothing struck home. It occurred to me that it takes a lot more work these days to write a song that is just okay, and these songs were just okay. By the time things were finally starting to pick up, they stopped playing. That was that. No, “This is our last song, we are the Broken West and we’re happy to be here. The Walkmen are next!” No nothing. Just one toe-tappable tune and they were off the stage.

But this was not a bill of musicians that were happy to be playing for us. When the Walkmen took the stage they looked downright chagrined. They couldn’t even bear to make eye contact with us, their audience. Their music - thumping and droning and scratching and screaming - sounded similarly pissed off. Still, this was the most subdued I had ever seen them. The Walkmen allowed some of their slower, newer material control the mood. The creaky, N’Orleans swing of “Louisiana”; the broken piano waltz “Another One Goes By.” When rougher, darker scream-along songs like “The Rat” finally came about, it felt downright arresting. You had the feeling, watching Hamilton Leithauser indignantly perched on his microphone stand while Matt Barrick pummeled his drumset, that something important was going on. That the Walkmen are a Very Important Band.

After the encore, which didn’t yield any of the “Pussycats” results I was screaming for, I made to leave. No sooner had I made two steps out the back door when I felt an arm pull me aside.

“Do you know where the Walkmen are?” asked a tall woman dressed in black with dark mascara. She looked very intense.

“Uhm, they’re probably in the back room over there,” I pointed, “behind the merch table.” Still, my exit was blocked.

“You have to take me to them.” She was literally inches away from my face at this point. The whites of her eyes looked huge surrounded by the black mascara. Is she goth, I wondered? Do the Walkmen attract a goth crowd? It must be something else. “I need to thank them.” It sounded important.

“Thank them?” I asked. “What for?”

“I’m going to get my Ph.D. in Psychology. I just found out today, and it’s all because of them. I want to study them.” At this point I’m becoming cautiously curious. “I think they can be a huge inspiration to children. Their music is so angry, but the song’s meanings are very insidious. I’m going to study the Walkmen and I’m going to play their music for children. It will have revolutionary effects. I’m not crazy.” She’s gripping my arm, walking me to the door. “Will you take me to them?”

“Listen lady, that’s an interesting theory you got there, but the Walkmen are just back there if you walk…” She glared at me, incredulous that I might decline her order. “Okay, I’ll take you as far as the merch table. But after that you’re on your own.”

Walking in, she continued to extrapolate on her theory of raising a generation of proto-revolutionary children weaned on the subliminally subversive lyrics of Hamilton Leithauser. “I mean, I can get them loads of money; research grants. I’ve got this all planned out. I’m not a groupie or anything.”

It was at this point that I literally stumbled into Walkmen drummer Matt Barrick. Given his short stature, I’m sure this was not unusual for him.

“Oh, hey, great show tonight,” I managed, looking down.

“Thanks, man.”

“By the way, I’m a little disappointed that you guys didn’t play anything off of ‘Pussycats,’ I was really hoping you would. Also, I’d keep an eye on that chick over there if I were you. She’s been saying all sorts of crazy shit about your singer, and I don’t want to be held accountable for anything she may or may not do.”

He was not pleased to hear either of these announcements. As he eyeballed the deranged Ph.D candidate, who by this point had squirreled her way into the back room, I made my getaway, dodging the grasp of anyone who appeared to have even the slightest of mental imbalances.

So there you have it, folks. The Walkmen are the voice of America’s future, inspiring children from coast to coast with their insidiously angry lyrics, but still aren’t playing Nilsson live. For the sheer indulgence of it all, I’m posting a song off that album that would have made for an outstanding encore.

-Posted by Todd

Jonathan Richman - Just Because I’m Irish
(from You Must Ask the Heart)

Just because it’s St. Patrick’s Day and we haven’t posted anything in a while, here’s a cute little ditty courtesy of Jonathan Richman to accompany you as you decide whether or not to crawl through the various Irish-themed bars in your town tonight. Of course, would you expect anything other than a cute ditty from an album that features the always affable, though admittedly somewhat dopey, Jonathan Richman in a flowy white shirt petting a black cat in a sunny field? The vocals are provided by Julia Sweeney, and although I’m not 100 percent cerain, I have a hunch that it’s that Julia Sweeney.  Jonathan, meanwhile, plays the part of the slightly obnoxious Irish man, fake accent and all, pestering Julia about her knowledge of Irish bars in Manhattan due to her Irish surname. In its own weird way, the song ends with a quick, romantic duet, making an endearing song even more charming.

-Posted by Todd

Cody ChestnuTT - Brother With An Ego
Cody ChestnuTT - 5 On A Joyride
Cody ChestnuTT - The Seed
(from The Headphone Masterpiece)

Cody Chesnutt flirted with success briefly in 2002 when he was featured on the Roots’ single “The Seed (2.0)” from their Phrenology album.  The song was actually an adaptation of one of Chesnutt’s own solo tracks, a cleaned-up, tighter version of his sloppy and occasionally out-of-tune original.  Chesnutt opened for the Roots on their tour supporting that album and gained a small amount of buzz as a result.

2002 also saw the release of Chesnutt’s debut album, the ambitious, eccentric, hilariously-titled double-disc The Headphone Masterpiece.  The first time I heard it, I suppose I was expecting songs like the Roots’ “The Seed (2.0),” and I was quite surprised to be greeted with a forty-second tape-hissy keyboard and vocal track followed by a seemingly endless, though actually less than four minutes, naughty/sexy spoken word piece by terrible guest poet Sonja Marie.  The record was already confusing and frustrating me, and then he couldn’t even hit his own high notes in the original “The Seed!”  He’d play a great lo-fi acoustic track like “Enough of Nothing” for less than a minute and then follow it with a looped beat for another 46 seconds with him on top saying, and I quote, “Test test test test ahhhhhhhhh.”  By the time I got to the end of the tremendous nearly-100-minute album (this guy’s got some serious huevos rancheros putting out a debut that long and bloated) I was left thinking, “What a weird album.”  Then I realized – I love weird albums!

It’s like the diary of a nutty, earnest, gifted, horny, and slightly delusional recluse put to music by the love child of Stevie Wonder and Daniel Johnston.  Chesnutt has no reservations or continuity lyrically, going from songs about childhood best friends to songs about sex while high, then continuing to beg for forgiveness for cheating on his woman and singing a 13-second ode to his “big black penis.”  He’s all over the map musically as well, from acoustic guitar and vocal ballads, hip-hop tracks (with occasionally dreadful freestyle rapping), retro soul, and straight-ahead garage rock, all recorded with a lo-fi feel and usually with a drum machine.  His aesthetic is unique, and it’d be hard to find an artist that sounded like one of these tracks, much less an artist who can pull them all off like Chesnutt does.  And his voice, despite its limits and occasional blemishes, is remarkably expressive and smooth.  The pimp anthem “Serve This Royalty” has a bridge melody that’ll break your heart and the introspective “5 on a Joyride” hits me right in the middle of my soul.

After his short stint in the spotlight and this wonderful album, Chesnutt has all but disappeared, apart from a painfully-brief appearance in the high-spirited documentary/concert film Dave Chappelle’s Block Party and a recent inclusion on the Biblical concept compilation Plague Songs.  Chesnutt contributed “Boils,” a rollicking reggae track full of horns, groove, bombast, and notably improved production values.

Chesnutt’s MySpace page hints at a new collection of songs called The Live Release, “a unique experiment in music, an exercise of the living word.”  I’m not totally sure what that means, but I’m excited to hear it.  He releases what he wants when he wants, and whenever he decides to drop another album on the unsuspecting public, make sure to take notice.

-Posted by Andrew