Meanwhile, back in the suburbs...

Meanwhile, back in the suburbs...

WILD LIFE WINGS APPLE

Paul and Linda are offering themselves as the petit bourgeoise alternative to the millionaire bohemian ethos of John and Yoko. The four of them are bringing every issue into play: city v. country, politics v. privatism, women�s liberation v. domesticity, rock v. schmaltz, even hip v. square. Paul v. John. We hear Paul celebrating the life of some obviously oppressed female office worker, while John sings for her as part of the masses in �Power to the People.� Paul turns up his nose at B.O., dirty levis, and bad breath in �Stnile Away.� John pens hideous protest epics about Attica and John Sinclair while Paul, on this new one, sniffs at the �political nonsense in the air� which is, in a connection I can�t exactly follow, gumming up the chances of some wildlife out in the African veldt. Each ex-Beatle is carving out an area of the rock for himself, or rather digging a foxhole. And in general, their worst music comes when they are working from the kind of perspective a foxhole gives you. There are exceptions on John�s side, �Oh Yoko� and �Power to the People,� but...

Take one issue. The problem with most of these �Oh Yoko-Linda-Paul-John� songs is that they are so specific. They are hard to relate to, and hard to abstract from — you can�t really take them over and apply them to your own life, unless you happen to be called John, Paul, Yoko, or Linda, I guess. Unlike the original version of this routing, Paul & Paula, who were just idealized mythical teenagers with no reality of their own, these Beatle people are enormously real to us, and so �Linda� is not �Li-li-Linda� as she was for Jan & Dean (and us), but Linda McCartney, nee Eastman, and so on. You are caught by the context, and whatever power the song has is (usually) severely limited by too much information about the characters. The song is dragged down until it�s merely a snapshot in someone else�s family album, and we all know how boring that is.

When a song is blatantly Paul�s attemtp to pretty up Linda or Linda�s attempt to glorify Paul, unless that song is quite overwhelming musically the chance it might have of affecting someone else�s life is basically cancelled out. This is especially troublesome in terms of Paul, since it seems that the only form of love he can tell us about is sentimental, which does not usually lead to overwhelming music. It would be a real loss if all of Paul�s talent was sacrificed to yearly dispatches about his love life and how wonderful things are with him and Linda, especially when there is so little humor to it, and when fundamentally it seems fradulent: an exercise in Beatle-politics rather than what it pretends to be. What lifts �Oh Yoko� out of this swamp is partly its wonderful humor — I think anyone can relate to �In the middle of a shave I call your name,� and if they can�t I�ll bet they�ve been listening to too much Paul McCartney. You can see yourself yelling hello across the house, no matter what you�re doing, and then going back to your razor or your bath. This song actually tells us something about love, it doesn�t merely imitate an' idea about love, which is what a sentimental song does. And there is that piano, that bubbling emotion that gives the song so much of its depth. It is, musically, perhaps the best thing on Imagine. But so many of these love songs deny the universality and the_ impetuous originality of �Oh Yoko.� They deny anything but their own context, which is all you�re supposed to get, and you feel like you�re reading a movie magazine.

Anyway it�s false. No relationship is as sunny as Paul�s music would lead you to believe his and Linda�s is. Even Paul & Paula had their �First Quarrel.� But in order to combat the heavy rocker stance of John and Yoko, Paul and Linda have constructed a cocoon of treacle from which, apparently, they regularly burst forth in butterfly regalia to live out the life of �Obladi Oblada.� In the evening she�s a singer with the band. The rest of the time she changes diapers and takes pictures of Paul.

You get the idea, though, that what really lies beneath this �Sound of Music� affection in its public incarnation is an enormous bitterness, which emerged full-grown on John�s last album in a song peppered with insider�s insults unintelligible to the audience (�So Sgt. Pepper took you by surprise� — are we really supposed to think Paul didn�t know what that was about?). This kind of stuff is just more home movies, inaccessible and rhetorical. It�s the kind of thing you only want to hear once. It can�t grow. So much of this stuff can�t grow.

At, any rate, we have the Liberated Artists v. The Happy Married couple. �Revolution Number Nine� v. �Obladi.� Personally, I�m more interested in that vital, angry, funny area in between, where Paul and John try to get some sense of things as they are instead of playing roles that are becoming both tiresome and confining; I�d rather see them take their music seriously instead of merely taking themselves seriously as spokesmen for — themselves, building glass houses and tossing rocks through their own windows trying to break the other guy�s. This is the area of �Back in the USSR�, �Yer Blues� (a much greater political song than John�s latest efforts, from �I Don�t Want to Be a Soldier� to �Attica State�), �Helter Skelter,� �Why Don�t We Do It In the Road,� �I�m So Tired,� and so on.

Paul�s new album is half of one and half of the other. Side one is tough, imaginative, novel, and rocking, full of a new band�s spirit and the elan that has made Paul one of the most important figures in the history of rock and roll. He was a Beatle, you know. John says, �You must have learned something in all those years,� but we all learned a lot from Paul. He starts off with a screamer this time, with guitar rhythms breaking over each other, an organ chording, flashy riffs all framing McCartney yells. It has a delicious freedom to it; called �Mumbo,� it�s the best thing he�s done in years. Then after a neat little number called �Bip Bop,� the title of which is nicely descriptive, we meet �Love Is Strange.� It�s exactly what you wouldn�t expect; instead of a coy �Paul? |.. Linda?� in the Mickey and Sylvia mode we get a marvellous marriage of the original calypso rhythm and a soul beat, the creation of a novel sound that�s something like Sly Stone in a very good mood. You may not exactly dance all over the room but you have to try and beat out the rhythm on something. It�s fine, and Denny Laine, Denny Seiwell, Linda and Paul make up a first rate rock and roll band. That�s what they are on this first side, a band, playing with sympathy, getting a kick out of each other, finding a sound. Paul has made the right choice in forming a group instead of just using the superstar pool.

The last cut on the side is �Wild Life,� a slow, moody piece with tough, thick guitar and bass that is a strong success, even though the lyrics are somewhat sententious. What we�ve heard, then, is one solid side of Paul breaking into something new, and while it�s no cosmic explosion, it sets its own tone, and makes its own claims.

Side Two is soft, sweet, �you are my singer,� other people don�t know about love like we know, aren�t we lucky, mmmmmmm-hmmmmmm, high voices, simpering melodies. The music is pedestrian and the tone offensive. It�s as if Paul & Wings spent the first side making music and having fun and then sat down to work out the propaganda so they could keep up their end of The Big Battle For Cultural Supremacy and Our Way of Life. I know it sounds like the cold war but that�s just what it is, and about as meaningful, and as wasteful.

This is a far better lp than Ram and there�s no point in ignoring it, any more than there�s any point in taking John seriously just because he seems more in tune with what�s cool. Neither of these men are really in tune with themselves at this point. That may not really be much to worry about; John has a core of rage and brilliance at the center of his soul that no fad can ever dim, and Paul... well, he was a Beatle, and he still knows how to rock. From the evidence of half of Wings, even likes to.

Greil Marcus

MILES DAVIS

LIVE-EVIL

COLUMBIA

Miles Davis is in the middle of his fourth (or is it his fifth?) �New Direction� in music. His most recent one all but started with the In a Silent Way set, though the Filles De Kilimanjaro album gave several clues of what was coming. Since then, Miles has continued his winding, skating, brooding trek through Bitches Brew, the two record set at the Fillmore and his Tribute to Jack Johnson. Many people hoped that Miles would move on after Jack Johnson, fearing he could only start to repeat himself otherwise. Fortunately, though remaining within his present framework, Miles has progressed toward another dimension on his new release, Live-Evil (Columbia G 30954).

The two-album set, an assemblage of segments from four live performances and several studio sessions (dates aren�t listed on the jacket, and the Columbia Promo man isn�t telling anyone), presents Miles still within the electrical framework supplied by his rhythm section. Yet, his �beautiful Irish melodies,� as he once called his ballads, take on a new edge with his continued use of an amplifier electrically augmenting his trumpet, allowing him more freedom in shifting and dictating the music. Three of the studio sessions, �Little Church,� �Nem Un Talvez� and �Selim,� mark a return to the Silent Way lyricism, while the fourth, the medley �Gemini/Double Image,� reflects the haunting beauty and dirge quality of some of the Bitches Brew material.

The live cuts feature what was Miles� group until the first few months of 1971: Keith Jarrett on keyboards (both electric piano and organ), bassist Michael Henderson, Gary Bartz on alto sax, Jack De Johnette on drums, guitarist John McLaughlin and Brazilian percussionist extraordinaire Airto Moreira. McLaughlin has since left to devote full attention to his own musical development, while De Johnette is replaced now and then by Billy Cobham. The material is not the complex, overlapping affair that characterized the Fillmore performances, primarily because of Airto�s major role extending Miles� and Barts� horns and Jarrett�s funky electric piano. Bartz contributes several magnetic, insistent solos, and Henderson — well, after first listening to �What I Say,� all that went through my head the rest of the day was his bass handiwork. De Johnette, except for one overindulgent solo, is excellent and McLaughlin, as on Silent Way, tastefully filters back and forth, though on one cut here, �Funky Tonk,� he drifts from the music�s movement.

The studio sessions feature virtually everyone who�s played with Miles since Silent Way: Bartz, Moreira, Henderson, De Johnette, Jarrett, McLaughlin, Wayne Shorter, Josef Zawinul, Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea, Ron Carter, Dave Holland, Billy Cobham and Steve Grossman. The Davis/Zawinul medley, �Gemini/Double Image,� includes the addition of sitarist Khalil Balakrishna, while Hermento Pascoal, who�s played with Donald Byrd and Airto, is featured whistling and playing electric piano on �Little Church� and singing on �Nem Um Talvez� and �Selim,� indicative of Miles� further exploration of new sounds, new jumping-off points.

But the album is Miles: Miles the Sorcerer, the Magician, the Mystic. His performances on both the live and studio sessions are completely Miles: unforgettable. His sense of rhythm, his shrieking, brooding cries, his guiding mind and hand make the album a fulfilling experience. And on the inside jacket, he�s caught smilingl No wonder: his magic envelops the entire effort.

Jarrett, the young genius on keyboards, appears to be more closely linked to Miles than anyone else. His dialogue with Miles on �Sivad� and �Inamorata� and his return to his classical training on �Funky Tonk� are outstanding.

Airto kicks ass throughout the album. Miles has found a scintillating genius in Moreira. His steady contributions to the music enhance the atmosphere, deepening the mystery.

The only bummer on the album is a oneminute narrative on �Inamorata� by Conrad Roberts. Why it was put there, aside from the possibility that Columbia might be trying to please Miles� white audience, eludes me. It detracts from an otherwise fine cut, destroying the mood built by Miles and Jarrett.

Nonetheless, there are new things to hear with each listening, new dimensions to travel with each hearing. Live-Evil is a fascinating, spellbinding journey. Miles� magic is, as always, everywhere.

Kenneth Engel

THE DRIFTERS:

THE CLOVERS:

LaVERN BAKER:

JOE TURNER:

CHUCK WILLIS:

THE COASTERS:

GREATEST RECORDINGS ATCO

Don�t get me wrong. I think Atlantic Records has done a wonderful thing here. Six Greatest Hits albums from Atco�s considerable R&B stable. The mono is in mono; the stereo is in stereo. No bullshit. The liner notes are by Barry Hansen, a San Francisco deejay, and they�re just fine, informed and informative. I could stand to know who those horn players are - this series has some of the best sax breaks in the history of rock and roll -but let it pass. Barry Hansen is one swell liner note writer.

It�s just that one of these albums stands out from the others like a silo in a wheat field, and I�d really like to get to it. But one is required to perform these housekeeping functions. Comprehensive journalism. Mention everybody. Adolph Eichmann went on trial today for the murder of two million Jews. They were:

Okay.

The Drifters: Their Greatest Recordings: Clyde McPhatter sings lead, on about half these. �Money Honey� is still good, but �White Christmas� and �Bells of St. Mary�s� are the cuts that really knock me out. This is certainly the best recording of either of these tunes ever. The other cuts, most of them with Johnny Moore singing lead, aren�t so impressive. The album closes with an all-time winner, though, Ben E. King from the depths of his echo chamber wailing out �There Goes My Baby.� Ben E. King made the original �Rose of Spanish Harlem,� it will be remembered.

Trivia fans: A little known Drifter, Bubba Thrasher, does a dynamite vocal on a tune called �Your Promise To Be Mine.� The next time you�re playing Oldies-As-Status, don�t forget Bubba Thrasher.

The Clovers: Their Greatest Recordings. The Early Years: I don�t know what this �Early Years� stuff is about; they certainly don�t promise any companion album to be called �The Later Years.� But it sounds hightoned, like a biography of Lincoln, and record companies like to sound classy. Makes them feel legitimate.

No matter. The Clovers have great historic significance, I understand, but I find them boring. �One Mint Julep� is still a tough little tune, and �Love Potion Number Nine� is a lot of fun. When �Devil or Angel� came on, I got my old lady into the front room and we made out on the couch. I got sweaty.

La Vern Baker: Her Greatest Recordings. Well, �Jim Dandy� is a good song and �Tweedle Dee� is a better version than the Georgia Gibbs cover that became a hit, but.. . listen, Grace Slick cuts La Vern Baker. Honest to Pete.

Joe Turner: His Greatest Recordings: Someday someone will show me why I should listen to Joe Turner when I can listen to Jimmy Rushing, and there will be peace in the valley, amen.

Chuck Willis: His Greatest Recordings: �The King of Stroll,� you may remember, hit the charts with �C.C. Rider� and virtually nothing else. This record proves conclusively that he deserves his obscurity. Some of those folks back in the 50s weren�t real good. Playing before segregated audiences for 20 years may make an artist sympathetic, but it doesn�t make him skillful.

Okay, Lester. I took out the papers and the trash.

The Coasters: Their Greatest Recordings: �In the beginning,� intones God, making a special guest appearance, �there was nothing but rock. Then someone invented the wheel, and things began to roll.�* Those are the first words on the first cut on the first side, and they introduce a song called �That is Rock and Roll,� sung by the Coasters. There are very few groups better able to create that definition.

The story of The Coasters is partially the story of Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who were certainly the best rock and roll songwriters of the 50s. What did they do for the Coasters, these two white men? �Poison Ivy.� �Along Came Jones.� �Searchin� � �Yakety Yak.� �Little Egypt.� �Charlie Brown.� �Down in Mexico.� �Riot in Cell Block Number Nine.� �Young Blood.� There�s a litany for you. That is rock and roll.

What lyrics! They inevitably propel you into the center of the action, eliminating needless information to produce narratives that are miracles of brevity and, more often than not, wit. The greatest continuing lesson in how to get people into your music right now. You�re just truckin� along with your AM radio and all of a sudden a group of men is chanting: �Fee fee fie fie fo fo fum/ I smell smoke in the auditorium.�* Boy, did they have your number! How about a falsetto screaming at you: �Take out the papers and the trash!�?* And straight to your horny little teenage soul: �I saw her standing on the corner/ A yellow ribbon in her hair.�*

Of course, the lyrics are remarkable all the way through. The bridge of �Poison Ivy.� �Measles make you bumpy/ And mumps�ll make you lumpy/'And chicken pox will make you jump and twitch/ A common cold�ll fool ya/ And whoopin� cough�ll cool ya/ But brother takes a lot to make you itch.�* Or, from �Little Egypt:� She had a picture of a cowbpy tatooed on her spine/ Saying Phoenix, Arizona, Nineteen-Forty-Nine.�f

Or, even better, the bridge on �Searchin� �: �Sherlock Holmes, Sam Spade, got nothin�, child on me/ Sergeant Friday, Charlie Chan and Boston Blackie/ No matter where she�s hidin� she�s gonna hear me cornin�/ Gonna walk right down that street like Bulldog Drummond.�* Bulldog Drummond! How many people who listened to that song - and it was one of their biggest hits -even knew who Bulldog Drummond was? I happened to, because I grew up in a family of detective story readers — Drummond was an old-school-tie British club detective, the hero of what are really a series of adventures for boys — but Lieber and Stoller didn�t care about that. They knew a good name when they heard one, and the rhyme must have been irresistable.

But Leiber and Stoller, good as they are, didn�t do it alone. Just flip through the album. �Poison Ivy,� for instance. �She comes on like a rose/ But everybody knows/ She�ll get you in dutch/ You can look but you better not touch.�* Listen to that singing! Listen to them attack that song! The momentum never stops. And have you ever heard anyone enjoy singing more? That�s pure, heartstopping, coin-of-the-realm joy! The Coasters could teach John Sebasfian a little about good-time music.

Further proof that The Coasters could do it themselves comes in the only non-LieberStoller tune on the album, a later single I had never heard before called �Shopping For Clothes�. It�ll knock your eyes out - very cool and very, very black. It�s about a dude who goes looking for some good-lookin� duds and finds them, only to discover that �Your credit didn�t go through.�** Ooooo-eeeee! The lead vocalist laments for eight more bars, and then the salesman cuts in, very smug, almost gloating. �That�s a suit you�ll never own.�** And as the music fades out, our luckless clotheshorse mutters: �I don�t understand it. I got a good job sweepin� up every day.�** They sure were black, this group that all the white kids loved.

(I shouldn�t leave this song without remarking on the very short bjrt mind-fucking saxophone solo in the middle. Just listen to it.)

In fact, the broadest hint of what the Coasters were up to comes on their first recording, back when they were still called The Robins. �Riot In Cell Block Number Nine� is about Attica, even though it was written in 1955. It presents the point of view of an inmate doing time for armed robbery, who wakes up to the noise of a riot. There�s never a doubt about which side he should be on, even though he never does find out exactly what the riot was about. He knows what it�s about, anyway. Soon he and his compatriots are confronted by the warden with a tommy-gun. Do they give up? No, indeed. In the words of Scarface Jones: �It�s too late to quit/ Pass the dynamite, �cause the fuse is lit.�f| That apparently took care of the warden, tommy gun and all, because the next verse is: �In the 47th hour, tear gas got our men/ We�re all back in our cells, but every now and then/ THERE�S A RIOT GOIN� ON!�|f No safe Establishment moral here. If this song were released today, there would be a Congressional investigation. The innocent 50s? One wonders.

Anyway, this is one monster of an album. I leave you with one of my favorite LieberStoller images, that of the �Idol With The Golden Head,� who remarks to his suppliant, lights flashing gaily: �Hold on, Jim, give me time to think.�*

Jon Carroll

* ©Tiger Music, BMI † ©Hill & Range - Trio, BMI ** ©Hill & Range — Elvis Presley, BMI †† ©Quintet, BMI