Sadly, Don Aicardi’s comment about my previous Dylan-does-Dr. Seuss post is true: Dylan Hears a Who is no more, and you can blame the Doctor’s handlers. The message at dylanhearsawho.com notes: “At the request of Dr. Seuss Enterprises, LP, this site has been retired.” That brings this episode a bit of resemblance to that of Bruce Springstone, the 1982 moniker of Baltimore journalist and cartoonist Tom Chalkley, who completely nailed that wheezy working-class Jersey drone. To his credit, Springsteen got the joke and just sent a postcard to Chalkley saying “Heard your record. Cute.” But Hanna-Barbera got hot and bothered, filing a cease-and-desist order that terminated production after 35,000 copies of the record (including mine). Hanna-Barbera’s nastiness was perhaps predictable, because one of the record’s highlights was the cartoon cover art of drummer John Ebersberger featuring Dino the dinosaur in the Clarence Clemmons role (any resemblance of Clarence Clemmons’ sax riffs to those of an actual dinosaur was, I’m sure, just coincidental). For a novelty record, the music holds up as well; truth be told, I’ve probably played my vinyl copy of the “Bedrock Rap/ Meet the Flinstones” medley more often than “Born to Run” itself over the last quarter-century.

On a related note, the miracle of YouTube has brought back Little Roger and the Goosebumps’ proto-mashup of “Stairway to Heaven” and the Gilligan’s Island theme song, which caused quite a ruckus among self-righteous stoners back in 1978. For what it’s worth, Robert Plant eventually met Little Roger, claiming that he always liked the parody and that Jimmy Page was the humorless bore who successfully prevailed on Led Zeppelin’s legal team to get the record banned. That must have been a very busy legal team–during the same period, for example, the Zeppelin boys threw a couch out of the 11th floor window of Chicago’s Ambassador East hotel, apparently hoping that Joe Walsh’s accountants would pay for it all.

If you’re in the mood for a more challenging reworking of that Zeppelin warhorse, don’t miss the terrific 2006 version by Rodrigo y Gabriela, the most accomplished metal-influenced Mexican acoustic guitar duo in all of Ireland.

The Rolling Stones have become the scourge of Serbian humane societies due to their plan to hold a July concert at Belgrade’s Hippodrome, home to hundreds of horses that live a few meters from the stage. If things get out of hand, Hippodrome staff plan to give the horses Bensedin, an animal tranquilizer that became popular with humans during NATO air strikes in 1999. Since the horses can’t be moved safely, Serbia’s largest animal protection group, ORCA, is trying to get the concert moved to a different location. As a former humane society director, I hope the Stones find a more suitable venue. What I wonder is why any promoter would even consider a concert plan that places Keith Richards a few meters from a huge supply of animal tranquilizers. This is the same Keef who, just last month, famously told a New Musical Express reporter he had once snorted his father’s ashen remains with cocaine, only to later issue a retraction the reporter found disingenuous.

Whether the Stones will give the horses any reason to get excited is unknown. Mick and Keith are as professional as two deranged codgers can get. But artistically, they’ve mostly been gathering moss since 1978’s Some Girls, and relying on the near-bulletproof drumming of Charlie Watts to roll over the tough spots. The music blog of Philadelphia’s WXPN has unearthed a Stones performance that really could have gotten the horses moving— a dirty, bluesy romp on the TV show Shindig (complete with groovy backup dancers) that unexpectedly segues into a star turn for Howlin’ Wolf, accompanied by Billy Preston on piano.

What Stones material would rank as the most likely to cause equestrian unrest? I’d probably vote for a loud and fuzzy version of the entire Exile on Main St. album. Let us know what you’d choose.

For the past 231 years or so, a favorite American pastime has been to pretend to hate the French, while secretly admiring French cuisine, art, architecture, philosophy, and yes, even its music. And the French have helped us become ourselves. It took French intervention to secure victory in the American Revolution, French theorist Alexis de Tocqueville to comprehend American culture, and French real estate in the Louisiana Purchase to give our country decent places to get barbecue. Years later, it took Brigitte Bardot to make us appreciate the Harley-Davidson motorcycle as an object of unbridled lust (sorry, Steppenwolf).

Recognizing that the original Bastille Day was literally a riot, we at Stuck Between Stations are coming out of the closet as Francophiles. To many Americans, “French music” has a limited reach, consisting of Edith Piaf, Maurice Chevalier, Johnny Halladay, and the anonymous Eurodisco that plays in the background at the Gap. A smattering of words from “Lady Marmalade,” “Games Without Frontiers” or “Psycho Killer” might also come to mind. I asked our regular contributors to put together playlists of music sung in French or recorded by artists based in France.

Four playlists appear below. Mine riffs off the global reach of French-speaking musical traditions, taking flight with a mix that moves from Paris to Algiers and Dakar, and then across the pond to Lousiana and Quebec. Malcolm Humes starts with France Gall’s most scandalous teen-pop anthem (a far weirder variation on the “I Want Candy” theme) before settling into a list that is heavy on adventurous prog and moody experimentalism. Christian Crumlish’s list celebrates the French role in Anglo-American music, and vice versa. Scot Hacker conjures an alternately loopy and romantic concoction that includes both jam and fromage.

There’s nowhere better to start than with Serge Gainsbourg, the genius, provocateur and pipe-smoking lothario who, according to Richard Gehr, still lived with his parents until he was 40. Gainsbourg’s “Couleur Café” is the obvious choice, because nothing says “liberty, equality and fraternity” to me quite like this video, which features an exotic dancer cavorting around the room and pouring Serge what has to be the single sexiest cup of java in music or film history. With all respect to the great Bob Dylan, next to “Couleur Café,” his “One More Cup of Coffee” sounds like something brewed at the AM/PM minimart.

Continue reading Globe of Frogs: Stuck on Bastille Day →

1. She’s a genius, she’s gorgeous, and Bjork is out of your league.
2. As far as we know, she isn’t a blood relative.
3. The harp is the sexiest of all musical instruments, other than the bagpipe and the accordion.
4. She will introduce you to Devendra Banhart, who can help you do something else with your hair.
5. She’ll give you something to brag about next time San Francisco political rival Matt Gonzalez attempts to flaunt his knowledge of John Coltrane, Joy Division and the Clash.
6. Her arranger is Van Dyke Parks, who has worked closely with Brian Wilson and can hook you up with a good therapist.
7. Her obsession with the mythical Breton city of Ys will help educate you about the dangers of coastal flooding.
8. Gift shopping at second-hand stores and Renaissance Faires rather than designer boutiques will save you money.
9. The next time you give a speech that is a bit lengthy and self-involved, you can mention that “Only Skin” lasts almost seventeen minutes.
10. You’d make an excellent mayor of Nevada City, California.

Don Aicardi (aka the “Egg Roll King”), roots archivist extraordinaire and our favorite authority on all things Dylan, passes along this classic new bit of inspired insanity, featuring a faux mid-sixties Dylan voice assaulting Green Eggs and Ham, the Zax, and the Cat in the Hat, among other bits of classic Dr. Seuss. I wish he’d also taken on Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, but it’s really hard to quibble. As these things go, it’s even better than Bruce Springstone: Live at Bedrock, and almost as good as the Temple City Kazoo Orchestra’s all-kazoo version of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.”

When he tired of the expense, the navel-gazing, and the circular conversations in the weekly sessions of therapy, his bright idea was to revive his interest in drumming, and what he lacked in actual ability he could always compensate for with enthusiasm and volume. This was not music to the ears of his wife, for if there was one trait she brought from her four-year tenure at UC Santa Cruz, other than a healthy respect for diversity and an unhealthy interest in thrift-store bargains, it was her fear of drum circles. But a drummer in Berkeley, like an addict in a methadone ward, needs more than words to make him stop, and besides, it felt so good.

It brought him back to when he was fifteen, staring in the mirror with sticks in hand, thinking, well, they may think I live in the library, I may be the captain of the debate team, but damn it, I will be the next Zigaboo Modeliste.

They met every Monday. They studied a different Third World rhythm every month, and to assuage the guilt that accompanied their idleness, they tried to discuss the human rights problems of every country whose rhythms they clumsily appropriated. And it therefore came to pass that blond-haired, blue-eyed misapplications of son and rhumba rhythms were downed in minty mojitos and debates about the legacy of Castro. The rat-a-tatting of failed doumbek rhythms led to hooka pipe and hash-intensified meanderings about the problem of Palestine, the multiple meanings of Zionism, the dreams of diaspora, and the wandering of Western Sahara. Borderline unlistenable tappings on a tabla, coupled with too many six-packs of Singha beer, led his little circle to tie themselves in knots over nuclear proliferation between India and Pakistan and the unresolved status of Kashmir. The hollow echo of the talking drum, and the ingestion of a green substance he could barely hold, much less identify, left him with a vague sense that something was amiss in the slums of Lagos. Fumbling attempts at samba rhythms brought an appreciation of the old souls of Bahia and a sense of wonder about the Brazilian rainforest. Then came the steel drums of Trinidad, the reverb of reggae, the deluge of rum punch, and the sudden desire to atone for 500 years of colonialism in the Caribbean.

He couldn’t stop himself. He may have been white, and born to parents who revered Pat Boone and Andy Williams, but he was damned if he wouldn’t at least try to understand the world and its conversant rhymes, the march and pacing and order that spoke a universal language in which he was only a beginner, but determined to try.

The restless searching finally ended the week he saw his Middle Eastern drumming teacher play in a large festival with her star pupil, who performed the same rhythm he had learned in class, yet flawlessly and five times faster. The star pupil was eight. He went home, put his sticks and worldwide collection of percussion instruments into a box in the basement, and opened a book for the first time in months.

Forget Kenny Rogers (and really, please forget Kenny Rogers). The musician best deserving the title “The Gambler” is our favorite Sonoma County rancher, Tom Waits. On July 10, Anti- will release Healing the Divide, the long-anticipated album version of a semi-legendary 2003 benefit concert at Lincoln Center. The concert features four performances by Waits with Kronos Quartet and Greg Cohen, including the previously unreleased “Diamond in Your Mind,” which may be familiar from Solomon Burke‘s version. Other performers on the concert album include the throat-singing Gyoto Tantric Choir, sitarist Anoushka Shankar (Ravi’s daughter who isn’t named Norah Jones), the ubiquitous Philip Glass with kora player Foday Musa Suso, and Tibetan flutist Nawang Kechong in a duo with Navajo flutist R. Carlos Nakai. Internationally renowned impresario the Dalai Lama is the opening act. Sales from the album will support efforts of Healing the Divide, an organization founded by humanitarian and fugitive kisser Richard Gere, to provide health services to Tibetan monks and nuns living in refugee settlements.

That may sound like a safe bet. But as Monica Kendrick of the Chicago Reader has noted, Tom Waits’ sales pitch for the album is a new variation on Pascal’s wager. “I’m no fool,” Waits noted, “It’s a spiritual insurance policy. Hell, at my age, the next group I put together, everyone may be playing a harp. All kidding aside, I owed His Holiness a favor. He did all my papers in school.”

Even Waits’ musical selections for the show hedge his spiritual bets, ranging from “Way Down in the Hole,” a Jesus-thumping gospel blues traditional enough to have been covered by the Blind Boys of Alabama, to the self-explanatory “God’s Away on Business.” As he sings in the latter, “there’s always free cheddar in the mousetrap baby, it’s a deal, it’s a deal.”

I admit I was predisposed to dislike British soul chanteuse Amy Winehouse’s new album Back to Black until I finally listened to it. How could the future of R&B lie with a troubled diva who vaguely resembles a goth version of Barbarella-era Jane Fonda? But appearances can be deceptive. I played Back to Black right after my beloved Chess Sisters of Soul anthology, and while it’s not in the Chess league, it sounded surprisingly good. Winehouse’s voice comes somewhere between the two Ettas—the powerhouse belting of Etta James, and the sultrier shadings of Etta Jones, whose “Don’t Go to Strangers” she has covered in a live duet with Modfather Paul Weller. And while Winehouse isn’t going to set the world on fire with her lyrics, it’s hard for me not to love someone who sings, in the catchy Ghostface Killah collaboration “You Know That I’m No Good,” that “by the time I’m out the door/ you tear me down like Roger Moore.”

With Winehouse tossing f-bombs like a drunken sailor and name-dropping Slick Rick and Nas (aka “Mr. Jones”) alongside Donny Hathaway, nobody would confuse her with a Ronette or a Vandella. But at its core, Back to Black fulfills its promise of delivering sweet soul music that is both contemporary and classic. Best of all may be the haunting title track, which updates the Phil Spector-style Wall of Sound to lethal effect.

Still, I have to wonder about a young star whose biggest hit has her saying “no, no, no” to rehab because she can learn everything she needs from Ray Charles records. Yeah, that’ll straighten her out. I’m going out on a limb, but maybe Amy Winehouse resists rehab because she thinks it would have a boring soundtrack. With that in mind, I’ve compiled a twelve-step playlist that might help her stick it out next time.

Continue reading A Rehab Playlist for Amy Winehouse →

On the 231st birthday of an outrageous experiment in nation-building with a pretty decent soundtrack, I asked our regular Stuck Between Stations contributors to take time from their five-alarm barbecues and traffic jams and hissing summer lawns to answer a simple question: What songs would you like to hear on the Fourth of July, in any style and for any reason? Faster than you can say “Sufjan Stevens,” we all went to look for America, and I said “be careful, my laptop is really a camera.” (Thanks, Apple).

Our stable of beloved revolutionary sweethearts proved worthy of the challenge. In what follows after my opening playlist, Sal Reyes casts George Washington as our founding prophet of rage, tucking into his knickers a “battle-scarred iPod” loaded with classic Public Enemy tracks. Scot Hacker surveys the state of a nation under a groove bold enough to mix Dylan and MC5 with Parliament/ Funkadelic, and explains why Condoleezza Rice won’t serve in President George Clinton’s cabinet. Malcolm Humes passionately describes Robert Wyatt’s relevance to our era of self-evident “truthiness” and freedom with asterisks.Christian Crumlish puts the jam back in holiday jamboree, from the Dead’s slow stew to the Minutemen’s quick sizzle.

Since my list includes James Brown’s Ford Administration civics lesson, “Funky President,” I’ll get things rolling with a teaser—David McMillan’s classic rant about the cosmic connections between James Brown and Gerald Ford.

Continue reading Stuck on the Fourth of July: Five Holiday Playlists →

Against my better judgment, I’m succumbing to the craze among online music fanatics to rewite songs in limerick form. Borrowing the popular idea to rewrite famous poems, Carl Wilson at Zoilus wrote limericks for an assortment of rock chestnuts ranging from Zep’s Jurassic classic “Stairway” to Sonic Youth’s adult-aged “Teenage Riot.” Rock, soul and hip-hop limericks started spreading like wildfire.

While this was all good fun, most struck me as stronger in concept than in execution. Then Idolator directed me to “There Once Was a Man From Garageland,” Twin Cities critic Nate Patrin’s Ogden Nash-worthy limerick version of the Clash‘s entire London Calling album for his excellent site, Rebel Machine. It’s a complete tour de force. Here’s Patrin’s version of “Lost in the Supermarket“:

Ennui strikes in the middle of Tesco
I don’t fit in where all of the rest go
My life is the pits
But at least Salsoul Hits
And some lager will make it feel less so.

All of the attempts I’ve seen, including Patrin’s, at least have lyrics that can be condensed in limerick form. To make things more sporting, I decided to try John Coltrane’s Live at Birdland album, one of only a few that has changed my life as much as London Calling. Here’s my limerick transcription of Live at Birdland, including the bonus track available only on CD:

Afro-Blue

A fleet-fingered drummer named Mongo
Wrote a rhythm best suited for bongo
But Trane tore it asunder
Elvin thrashed through the thunder
You could hear it from Jersey to Congo.

The rest of the album follows after the click.

Continue reading John Coltrane, Transcribed to Limericks →