The Beach Boys Come Home

There seems to be a pattern for extremely famous recording artists who stick around along time. After achieving a moderate level of success and notoriety, some create something that can be legitimately called a masterpiece, one that's so entrenched in our collective consciousness and music criticism's vernacular that it's hardly worth mentioning, that even mentioning its title becomes shorthand for an entire style of music. Since any sort of grand statement is nearly impossible to adequately follow. Chalk it up to labels' willingness to indulge, sycophantic inner circles who don't have the spine to ever say no, or just plain unchecked ambition, things tend to get rather strange around this point. Unsurprisingly, commercial success stalls or flat-out disappears, and, for better or worse, these artists tend to start looking toward contemporary influences for inspiration (or as an oft-misguided attempt to get back in the public's good graces). Lastly, provided they haven't burned out or faded away by this point, next comes a sort of strategic retreat, which will either be a pale imitation of former work, or a triumphant, comfortable return to form. After listening to the new Beach Boys record in full, the first with all original/classic-period members (last surviving Wilson included) in more than 25 years, I'd argue they've successfully completed this cycle, with the latter type of return.

Let's simplify, and call it "The Frank Sinatra Model of Music Careers":

Get famous > Get brilliant > Get weird > Get lost > Get found

And here's a look at how the Boys, and Sinatra himself, follow this pattern:

1. Get Famous
Sinatra: Coming up as a boy singer with the Harry James and Tommy Dorsey Orchestras in the late 30s and early 40s, Francis Albert Sinatra rightly became a star, singing on Billboard's first-ever #1 single, "I'll Never Smile Again." When he signed a solo deal with Columbia Records, he, rather unintentionally, made his first trailblazing move: he made people care about singers. Sure, Bing Crosby paved the way, and there were other notable singers before (Billy Murray, Al Jolson, great blues singers like Bessie Smith, and so on), but on the whole, the top billing on a hit vocal record mostly went to bandleaders: Miller, Dorsey, Ellington, Goodman, and so on. For their part, the singers were often very talented, but largely faceless and interchangeable (with all due respect to the great Helen O'Connell sides with the Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra), or were members of the band who stepped in front to take a vocal turn (a la Tex Beneke). Sinatra changed all this, and became what many consider the first true teen-idol pop star before his fortune started to fade in the late 1940s.


Beach Boys: Two words: "Surfin' Safari." The three brothers, their cousin, and neighborhood friend put Four Freshmen harmonies onto Duane Eddy twang and repurposed Chuck Berry riffs, wrote simplistic lyrics about one brother's weird hobby, and voila... the public conception of "surf rock" was born (yeah, yeah, Dick Dale, the Lively Ones, I know... but I won't quibble for this purpose). The Boys racked up hit after hit, most of which you probably never really need to hear again, culminating in their first #1, "I Get Around" (incidentally, the B-side is perhaps their first gesture towards the truly sublime: "Don't Worry Baby").


Who else?: Pretty much anyone Hall-of-Fame-worthy: "She Loves You"-era Beatles, "Heartbreak Hotel"-era Elvis Presley, the Clash or the Ramones, the Stones, Bob Dylan in his Village folksinger period... the list goes on and on.

2. Get Brilliant
FAS: Some might argue that his true "brilliance" came with Columbia, but I'll take the Capitol years any day. The relatively young Capitol Records took a chance on a mostly fallen star, who'd been relegated to singing whatever ill-advised number Mitch Miller, et al, at Columbia threw his way (check out the enjoyable but awkward "Bim Bam Baby" for evidence). With Capitol, Sinatra became Sinatra: the swagger, the phrasing, the emotional depth and understanding required for definitive interpretations of songs everyone had already recorded. From 1953 to around 1962, Sinatra released 16 albums with the label and countless singles with the best of the best surrounding him (arrangers Billy May, Nelson Riddle, Gordon Jenkins), at least 13 of which are flat-out classics. For my purposes, I'll mention In the Wee Small Hours. The second full-length in this impressive string, it's also arguably his best, and a second major innovation: the first concept album.
Whereas nearly every record before was a hastily-assembled collection of current singles (a trend that continued well into the rock/Motown era), Sinatra was among the first to recognize the potential for the album as a cohesive whole. In this case, this meant a collection of hauntingly devastating ballads intended for lonely late-night listening... the original "sad-bastard crap." But it's absolutely gorgeous, and along with its more joyous follow-up, Songs for Swingin' Lovers, it set the template for all the masterpieces to follow. Here, however, it's important to note that "concept album" only implies a thematic link, not the overreaching ambition of the later prog-rock operas.


BB: Pet Sounds. Need I say more? Its influence, both contemporary (on Sgt. Pepper) and long-lasting (Fleet Foxes/Grizzly Bear/every other pop-minded harmonizing indie band ever). The Beach Boys had been hinting at it for a while, but this is where studiocraft, songcraft, and performance all really came together.


Who else?: Sgt Pepper-era Beatles, 1968-1972 Stones, Bob Dylan from Bringing It All Back Home through Blonde on Blonde, London Calling, OK Computer... basically the top 10 of a Rolling Stone "Best Albums Ever" list. Some artists have either conflated this step with the first step (Elvis, if it can be argued he made this step at all) or skipped the first step altogether (Hendrix, the Velvet Underground).

3. Get Weird
FAS: Okay, so Sinatra never got THAT weird, in the let's-try-everything-and-see-what-sticks way that most rock groups did (and continue to do), but in a very important way, he made that luxury possible. By the end of the 1950s, Sinatra was fed up with the terms of his contract and some of the dreck foisted upon him (the dreadful doo-wop attempt of "Two Hearts, Two Kisses Make One Love" is "Bim Bam Baby" mk II), Sinatra again parted ways with his label, but this time from a position of relative strength. In 1960, he founded Reprise Records, effectively telling Capitol, "Fuck this, I'm out. I'm gonna do what I want, and I'm taking all of my famous friends (Dean Martin, Sammy Davis) with me."
Initially, it worked. The 1960s was a string of Sinatra vanity projects: a tribute to Tommy Dorsey, an album of re-recordings of his signature Capitol songs, collaborations with other big names he liked (Duke Ellington, Antonio Carlos Jobim, two with Count Basie). The first Reprise albums were on par with, if not occasionally better than, his already excellent work with Capitol. However, things started to slide. He also started including ill-chosen covers of contemporary songs ("Mrs. Robinson," "Downtown") on otherwise strong albums (the Duke Ellington collaboration in particular is a victim of this), foreshadowing the next step.
The weirdest moment: possibly the folky, dreary concept album Watertown, about a sad bastard from the titular New York town whose wife left him, co-written by one of the Four Seasons.

BB: In the case of the Beach Boys, "weird" doesn't automatically translate to "awful." Rather, after the infamous Smile debacle (what could have been their ultimate "weird" statement), they parted with Capitol Records and founded Brother Records (Capitol retained distribution rights, however). Here, they released a series of intriguing, albeit commercially unsuccessful/ignored, albums exploring a variety of genres and moods: the R&B infatuation of Wild Honey (including the surprisingly successful belter, "Darlin"), the homespun charm of the largely acoustic Friends, the slicker 70s pop sound of Sunflower (my personal favorite), the surprisingly dark Surf's Up, and the utterly bizarre Smiley Smile, a half-baked version of Smile that defies categorization. Throughout these albums, there were scattered a few nostalgia-grab callbacks to their earlier sound, often the low points of their albums (the cloying, simplistic "Add Some Music to Your Day" on Sunflower). 
The best moment of this period? "Good Vibrations," another #1 hit and a deceptively complex masterpiece of construction.


Who else?: The Beatles' self-titled White Album and the Clash's Sandanista! are often cited as the definitive examples of this: double (or triple, even) albums that probably contain one solid album, once you cut away all the filler and failed experiments. Bob Dylan, particularly on Self-Portrait and most other early 70s albums is another great example. Given Elvis Presley's overbearing management, he managed to avoid this step, instead releasing a string of maudlin pictures that continue to tarnish his reputation. Amazingly, the Stones managed to avoid this, although you could argue their Satanic Majesties flirtation with psychedelia counts, even though it precedes their "classic" albums. Radiohead managed to mostly maintain the critical rapture of their masterpiece through their ongoing weirdness, starting with Kid A.

4. Get Lost
FAS: This tends to be the absolute nadir of most of these long, storied careers, one which mired Sinatra for most of the 1970s. Not long after "My Way" (unfortunately, still his most remembered song) and Watertown, Sinatra announced his retirement from the music industry, only to triumphantly return... to release more albums of contemporary songs in schlocky arrangements unbecoming such a talent. The worst of the worst? Baffling disco renditions of "Night and Day" and "All or Nothing at All" that must be heard to be believed.

BB: One word: "Kokomo," three and a half minutes of such dreadfully contrived exotica, it makes Martin Denny records sound like Polynesian field recordings. Unfortunately, it remains their most recent #1 single, and is still (ironically) enjoyed too often. It's easy to write these lost years off as a function of Brian Wilson's personal troubles sidelining him, but that's letting Mike Love, et al. off far too easily. There is no excuse for this abomination.
Where Sinatra looked around him to become relevant again, the Beach Boys looked around to start looking backward. After the success of their early-career retrospective Endless Summer in 1974, the "Add Some Music to Your Day"s of their interesting albums dominated their focus, as they became a nostalgia touring machine who put out forgettably terrible albums with heavy lacquer of glossy production endemic to most older bands in the 1980s (I'd argue even Born in the USA is guilty of this). The one bright spot worth noting is 1977's Love You, a weird, surprisingly decent aberration, featuring synthesizers and songs talking about telepathic communication and Johnny Carson. Really, it isn't that bad, I swear.

Who else?: You could probably lump "fat Elvis" into this category, although there were faint traces of the next step sprinkled in. Luckily, the Beatles went out on a high note and avoided this fate. Neil Young's dalliances with 1980s electronica certainly fall into this category, as does some of Bob Dylan's work from the same period. Depending on your taste, the sleazy disco the Stones adopted for Some Girls could count, though I'd argue they pulled it off better than most could have. This cannot be said of most of their work from the 1980s.

5. Get Found
FAS: The most notable recording of Sinatra's late career is the overly ambitious Trilogy project from 1979, which simultaneously manages to fall into steps 3 through 5, though it mostly falls into this category. The triple album is divided into Past, Present, and Future sections. The "Past" section applies here the most. A reunion with Capitol-era Billy May, this section consists of 10 impeccably chosen standards, masterfully interpreted (particularly "But Not for Me"). The "Present" selections are at least better suited to Sinatra and better arranged this time around, thanks to long-time favorite arranger Don Costa. Billy Joel, Kris Kristofferson, the Beatles (even George Harrison was rather fond of his rendition of "Something"), and the iconic "Theme from New York, New York"... on the whole, it ranges from surprisingly good to could've-been-much-much-worse. The "Future" disc is a bombastic orchestral song suite from Gordon Jenkins, and the less said about that, the better.
His next album, however, is the real return to form: 1981's under-appreciated She Shot Me Down. Sinatra goes back to a Wee Small Hours-esque downer record of mostly originals with a few standards and covers (his daughter's "Bang Bang") thrown in. Riddle, Jenkins, and Costa all had hands in arranging the record, and it sounds contemporary, but tasteful, and not desperate at all. Sinatra himself rises to the occasion.


BB: It took over 30 years to climb out, but the Beach Boys have finally returned. That's Why God Made the Radio, released this week, features original members Mike Love, Brian Wilson, and Al Jardine, longtime collaborator Bruce Johnston (who replaced Wilson on tour after Glen Campbell decided to become "a lineman for the county," etc) and David Marks, who briefly replaced Jardine in the early 1960s. Reviews have been solidly positive so far, though it's difficult to know if these critics actually like the record, are relieved it isn't another record full of "Kokomo"s, or are just genuinely shocked these five are all in the same room after years of lawsuits and general acrimony.
This is not to say the record is great-- it isn't. It's not another Pet Sounds. I don't think any song even touches "Forever My Surfer Girl," off Brian Wilson's underappreciated 2006 solo record, That Lucky Old Sun. What it is, however, is comfortable. Their voices still blend beautifully together, Wilson's production is warm and clear, his arrangements are beautiful, and the weaker songs aren't total deal-breakers. All in all, it's best to view it as a pleasant surprise, a quietly triumphant celebration of their 60th year of existence.

Who else?: Not many have made it to this step. Perhaps the best example is Bob Dylan's work since 1997. Neil Young came back in a big way with Harvest Moon in the 1990s, and has put out several mostly solid records since. Some of Elvis Presley's later recordings show what could have been, if he had been treated more like an artist, and less like a cash cow: a wonderful country-gospel singer. Jerry Lee Lewis's acclaimed Last Man Standing was also a pleasant surprise.

A Sixth Step: Backslide?


It's rather unfortunate that Frank Sinatra didn't end on this relative high note. His last solo album, LA Is My Lady, is mostly marred by Quincy Jones's smooth jazz arrangements, and I'd rather pretend the Phil Hartman SNL parody of the Duets albums were not rooted in reality at all, and there weren't two full albums of phoned-in cash-grabs.

Will the Beach Boys make the same mistake? We'll see. Hopefully, the 70th anniversary will be celebrated with an album as surprising and enjoyable as the 60th.

Sick! Sick! Sick! Crazy Sexy Cool Girls, 1958-1968 (A Compilation)

I've always been a sucker for a good girl-group song.

Luckily for me, after the recent rise of Dum Dum Girls, Best Coast, Vivian Girls/Frankie Rose, etc etc, it seems like everyone's talking about them again. While this round of girls' wall of sound is a thick coat of Mary-Chain fuzz, the irrepressibly catchy pop underneath the grime still shines through bright and clear. This new-found influence has dovetailed nicely with the genre's critical re-evaluation as well, most notably in Rhino's fantastic four-disc box, One Kiss Can Lead to Another: Girl Group Sounds Lost and Found, from which several songs on my mix were selected from.

On the whole, this box does little to dispel the conventional wisdom that the girl groups of yesteryear were pristine, innocent, largely interchangeable creations of Berry Gordy, Phil Spector, or similar other masterminds, paragons of uptown sophistication (e.g., the Supremes) or girlish adolescence (e.g., the Ronettes). However, I've always found the weirder offshoots of this sound far more interesting, and perhaps more relevant to the class of 2009-10.

So I present: Sick! Sick! Sick! Crazy Sexy Cool Girls, 1958-1968.

The purpose of this compilation is not to be deliberately obscure; some of these songs are very well-known, some are not. I'm also not limiting myself to the classic American girl-group sound; I've included the quirky rockabilly of Betty McQuade and Terry Corin, ye-ye (France Gall and Brigitte Bardot), and quasi-exotica (Diane Maxwell's "Love Charms" is every bit as sexy as its spiritual cousin, Peggy Lee's "Fever").

In addition to Ms. Bardot's viciously playful "Moi Je Joue," I've included some largely overlooked singles from other sex symbols. The mix opens with June Wilkinson and Mamie van Doren duetting on the raucously sexy "Bikini with no Top on the Top." And while considering her a "sex symbol" would probably get me arrested, Sue Lyon's "Turn Off the Moon" (the b-side of her "Lolita Ya-Ya" single) has all the coquettish seductiveness of the jailbait-tease archetype she brought to the screen.

Some are more mainstream, but still distinctive: the Whyte Boots' "Nightmare" takes the "Leader of the Pack" template and ratchets up the melodramatic intensity. Tracey Day's reading of the genre standard "Gonna Get Along without You Now" has a particular bite absent from most versions, and the tough rhythm on Lulu's "I'll Come Running" rocks as hard as any contemporary Merseybeat combo. "Dumb Head" would be forgettable if not for the involvement of the singular Joe Meek (who deserves an entire post of his own). The mix ends with the rare so-clean-it's-practically-sinister ballad, "Oom Dooby Doom," from little-known teen idol type Alicia Adams.

Enjoy.

The tracklist:

01. June Wilkinson & Mamie van Doren- Bikini with No Top on the Top (1964)

02. Sue Lyon- Turn Off the Moon (1962)

03. Brigitte Bardot- Moi Je Joue (1964)

04. Tracey Day- Gonna Get Along without You Now (1964)

05. Gunilla Thorn- Go On Then (1963)

06. Lulu- I'll Come Running (1964)

07. Betty McQuade- Tongue Tied (1961)

08. Terry Corin & Her Boyfriends- Sick! Sick! Sick! (1959?)

09. The Tammys- Egyptian Shumba (1963)

10. The Sharades- Dumb Head (1964)

11. The What Four- I'm Gonna Destroy That Boy (1966)

12. France Gall- Laisse Tomber les Filles (1964)

13. Diane Maxwell- Love Charms (1958)

14. The Jaynettes- Sally Go Round the Roses (1963)

15. Reparata & The Delrons- Saturday Night Didn't Happen (1968)

16. The Whyte Boots- Nightmare (1967)

17. The Shangri-Las- Out in the Streets (1965)

18. Alicia Adams- Oom Dooby Doom (1961)

Download the .zip here:

http://www.mediafire.com/?bu2d292dzicj0du

Song of Today (24 February)

Althea and Donna- Uptown Top Ranking (1978)

I heard this song out somewhere a while back, but only recently figured out what it was; since then, I've been mildly obsessed with it. Even the first time I heard it, it sounded instantly familiar. And well, it was: it borrows the riddim from one of my all-time favourite rocksteady songs, Alton Ellis' "I'm Still in Love with You," itself a rather brilliant combination of soulful longing and catchy danceability. Over the next decade, it had been covered and re-used several times, notably by Marcia Aitken and deejay Trinity in the year before Uptown's release.

In 1978, just over a decade after Ellis's hit version, two Jamaican girls in their late teens scored a surprise #1 single in the UK with this playful bit of patois bragadoccio. The riddim is actually a re-recording, with several subtle differences in mix and arrangement that lend a certain sparkle and snap to the original's dusty charm.

Enjoy.

And for comparison's sake, the original: