What else is there to say about the famous rooftop concert? Just this: every time you watch it, you pick up something new. And that something new usually can be summed up thusly: good GOD what a band.
Paul McCartney's critical reputation has been on the upswing since before this century started, so it's sometimes surprising to remember just how much the critics savaged him and his music in the 1970s. He was often lumped into with other saccharine popsters of the day, writing and singing empty confectionaries, just chasing chart success. And to be fair, that's not entirely inaccurate. Except you know which of his peers up there at #1 could sing balls to the wall rock and roll like he so casually does at about 0:29 there? None of them. (Well...Rod the Mod. But he doesn't count.)
John Lennon, of course, is at his coolest here—and when he was cool, there was absolutely no one cooler—obviously emotionally invested, and just gliding through the proceedings with that amazing voice, playing some sweet guitar, and occasionally (such as at 1:54) unleashing that zillion watt smile of his. Obviously, he was one of the great rock and roll screamers of all time, but here he goes the smooth route, gliding above everything casually, knowing that's the most musically effective way to provide counterpoint to Paul's grit.
Even the famously unhappy by this point George Harrison mainly looks pleased, and outright happy a bunch of places—usually but not always when smiling at Ringo, and who can really blame him?—all while playing that frankly weird-ass guitar part that no one else would have come up with and with fits absolutely perfectly.
Speaking of, notice the way Ringo Starr is pounding those toms. There's a very clear difference in timbre between drums hit hard and drums not hit hard, and Ringo is bashing those poor things, getting the best possible tones out of them. And check out that brief, tight and not terribly characteristic fill at 1:28, with its sweet syncopated hi-hat bark. But most of all, listen to the way he brings them back in after the breakdown, around 1:17, as George smiles and Paul hits that perfect high note. They're on a damn rooftop, having not played live in years, they're freezing--several of them wearing their wives' coats in an attempt to keep warm—and them come back in at precisely the right millisecond. If the top studio musicians in New York or Los Angeles stumbled upon these guys playing in some dingy club and heard that bit, they would have turned to each other in shock. "Did you just hear that?" "Of course I did. Good god, who are these guys?"
A sage once said, “There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours.” Well, there's always a shortage of perfect pop songs, and the writer of one of the most perfect of all time has died. It wouldn't be accurate to say I was exactly a fan of his, but looking over his catalog, I surely was a massive fan of at least a few of his songs, and am finding myself crushed that we'll never again get a chance to hear him write another perfect new song from the 60s or 80s or 70s or 90s.
One of the things that I've learned over the past few weeks is that some people are apparently unaware of the single greatest drum fill in rock and roll history.
It's played by Doctor William Scott Bruford, aka Bill Bruford, formerly of Earthworks, formerly of King Crimson, fomerly of Bruford Levin Upper Extremities, formerly of Anderson Bruford Wakeman and Howe, formerly of Bruford, formerly of UK, formerly of Genesis (touring only), formerly of Yes. And indeed this is a Yes song, a little-remembered ditty by them known as "Roundabout."
The fill in question occurs at 6:28 of the original recording, but here is it, semi-isolated for your listening pleasure. (I've chosen the version that's got Chris Squire's thunderous bass, and a little bit of Jon Anderson's vocals, for context, but there's also a version that's just Bill Bruford and, yes, entire days have gone by where I've just played his isolated tracks on repeat and so what if I do?)
The clip embedded should start seven measures before the fill, at 6:20. The fill itself lasts for one measure, so you can be prepared for the greatness, which begins at the 6:33 mark.
Here's what la partie de batterie inégalée sounds like without the bass (more or less):
There are at least two different transcriptions of this fill currently online. One looks like this:
while the other like this:
You'll note both agree on the first eight 16th notes, but then diverge as to what he does with the second half of the fill. While I find the first version more aesthetically appealing, the second version sound more correct to me, if still not quite accurate: I think it's correct in its number of bass drum notes, but I think Bruford used two different floor toms, where it only notates one. On the other hand, I've listened to the fill at half speed a dozen times and could never have even made a stab at notating this myself, so I'm probably wrong too and massive props to those devoted and erudite scholars.
Here's the thing that makes this fill so astonishing. First of all, it just is: it's technically difficult, it fits the music, it kicks the music into an even higher gear, and it sounds cool as fuck. But much or most or all of that could be said for so many other drum fills, so why this one? Because while technically difficult, it's far from the most difficult: there are oodles and boodles of fills by jazz and metal drummers which would make this seem rudimentary.
Two main reasons. The first is that it was improvised—unlike many other difficult fills which are planned, written, practiced ahead of time, this is jazz devotee Bill Bruford we're discussing, so this fill was, as with most of his fills, totally spur of the moment, played for that take and that take only, and never repeated. It just came to him as the measure approached, or maybe didn't even, maybe his limbs just took over and that's what happened.
The other thing is that this fill doesn't really sound like Bill Bruford, per se. I mean, it obviously does, and not just because he's playing it. But it's not as typical a fill as, say, the one he plays in the eighth measure of the song:
or the brief one shortly before the greatest ever:
I've always loved this other fill, incidentally. It's so short, it's almost like he refuses to do a typical rock fill, just tossing this unexpected bomb off casually, with the crash coming in on the 4 of the bar, rather than the 1 of the next measure, as is far more typical and would therefore be expected. As Bruford once said:
"Surprise, attack, understate, or overstate, but whatever you do, avoid the two cardinal sins of being either boring or predictable."
But the main fill, the fill we're talking about, doesn't really sound like him. It's not like when Ringo swings a fill, as was his style, even during songs with a straight feel. It's not like a Bonham triplet, which are always awesome. It's not like when Collins plays double-speed at the end of a fill, as he so often did. It's not like when Tony Thompson would end a fill with an accented snare on the 4 at the end of a fill, before crashing on the subsequent 1. It's not like Steve Gadd's fill that kicks "Chuck E.'s in Love" out of the bridge and back into the song, which is so badass and so tasty but quite stylistically typical of Gadd in every way (including being badass and tasty). Those are all awesome and part and parcel of those awesome drummers' awesome styles.
But this ain't that. This fill is atypical of Bruford, it's a one-off, which sounds like nothing he'd ever do again, even as timbrally it sounds so clearly Bruford. Put all those factors together and you've got the single greatest fill in rock history, on a song which has been played to death for 50 years, and yet somehow it still skates by unnoticed.
[For the record, the greatest drum intro ever is, of course, on the Temptations classic "Ain't Too Proud to Beg," played by one of the Funk Brothers drummers—in this case, apparently, Uriel Jones (and not the also amazing Pistol Allen or Benny Benjamin). Unbelievably versatile, musical, tasteful and kickass, it easily beats out, in my mind, also phenomenal intros by the likes of Charles Connor, Ringo Starr, John Bonham, Stevie Wonder, Steve Gadd, Stewart Copeland, Phil Collins, Jeff Porcaro, Larry Mullen Jr, Dave Grohl and so many other brilliant drummers.]
I was never exactly an Eddie Money fan. I was a suburban white boy growing up in the northeast in the late 70s and early 80s, so of course I knew and liked a handful of his songs; that's just how it was. But to call myself a fan wouldn't just be a stretch, it'd be inaccurate.
Still, it amused me when he scored an MTV hit in the early days. This not terribly telegenic and definitely not smooth and polished rocker, nothing like Michael Jackson or Duran Duran, was on nearly as often, thanks to his "Shakin'" video. And if I didn't especially want to watch it, much less listen to it, well, it still made me smile.
But I've always thought he did have one true shining moment of real rock and roll greatness. His breakthrough hit "Two Tickets to Paradise" is good. It's not great but it's good, maybe even very good. The drums, by the fabulous Gary Mallaber, are fantastic, the percussion's great, and the guitar solo is ever so sweet. But the lyrics to the verses are jejune and the chorus simplistic.
But the music during the verses is great. And if the music during the chorus is just okay, well, that all gets washed away during the B-section, the "waiting so long" part, which seems as simplistic as the chorus and yet somehow taps into something incredibly primal and eternal, thanks to the combination of the sentiment, the melody and the instrumental backing, along with Money's vocal delivery, which sells the underlying emotion perfectly. If I were to ever capture a moment that well, I'd be a very happy artist indeed.
I just saw this clip today for the first time and was gobsmacked...all over again.
Some wag once described "Left of the Dial" thusly:
I just sat there, listening to this song I’ve heard a hundred times, thinking once more, this is rock and roll. Everything about it just screams This Is Rock and Roll and All That Is Good About It. If an alien landed and wanted to know what rock and roll is, I do believe this is the song I’d play.
15 years after I wrote that I'm watching this clip and thinking, yeah—I don't often get things that right, but on this one, I surely did.
Oh, and then let's just toss in "Alex Chilton," a serious contender for Greatest Power Pop Song Ever, as a digestif because we're the damn Replacements and that's the kind of thing we can do so why the hell not.
The greatest American singer of our lifetime? The greatest female singer of our lifetime? Or simply the greatest singer of our lifetime? Pace Frank Sinatra, Sam Cooke, Elvis Presley, Marvin Gaye, John Lennon and Prince, it's pretty damn hard to argue that the Queen of Soul wasn't just the first two but all three—certainly until yesterday she was the greatest living pop singer in the world.
But she was also a brilliant artist, who knew how to make the most of her spectacular instrument, turning in mind-blowing performance after mind-blowing performance. Taking "Respect," a song already done fantastically by its writer, Otis Redding, and blowing his version away by adding a bridge and her pipes and transforming it into a feminist anthem should not have been possible. And for the Queen, it was a day's work, and a life's triumph.
And if that was all she had done, her place in history would have been assured. But of course that's just the tip of the iceberg. "Chain of Fools," "(You Make Me Feel Like a) Natural Woman," "I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You)," "Think," "Do Right Woman - Do Right Man," "Rock Steady" and dozens of others don't even begin to scratch the surface of her contribution to popular music. And that's without even getting into her importance to the civil rights movement.
For many of us suburban white kids, her incendiary performance in The Blues Brothers was our first conscious introduction to Aretha, although of course her music had been in the air since we'd had ears.
I was deep in my hard rock Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult, Aerosmith phase the first time I saw the film, and this kind of soul music was not in my wheelhouse. And yet I remember being utterly transfixed from the moment she began singing, barely breathing until the song was over. I've probably watched it two dozen times since then and it's never lost one bit of its power.
If you’re like me, it’s impossible not to compare what she’s doing to what Art Garfunkel did. In the Simon & Garfunkel version, the part when Garfunkel sings “…and pain is all around” always chokes me up. He’s a friend offering solace, but you can tell he’s not exactly in the best way, either. He’s trying to be strong, but he can’t help but expose his inner pain.
Aretha does not sound weak. She is not praying to God for deliverance. She is the voice of God.
When Simon & Garfunkel perform “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” the final “sail on silver girl” verse seems superfluous after that “pain is all around” verse — the song’s emotional peak has already been reached. But when Aretha does it, that last verse feels like a legitimate climax. As a listener, you feel yourself ascending toward the divine. She’s reaching out, extending herself to give all of humanity a big bear-hug. “Your time has come to shine / all your dreams are on their way,” she sings, and you believe her, because her voice has automatic authority when it comes to such matters. She sounds immortal, and this is a relief, because what is immortal can’t ever die.
Damn skippy.
That performance, obviously, also features some sweet damn piano playing from Ms Franklin—if your band was auditioning for a new pianist, and she walked in and started playing the way she does here, you'd sign her up after about three bars...and that's without even hearing her sing.
For further proof, let's turn to her takeover of Elton John's "Border Song."
Again, that fantastic piano is courtesy the Queen herself, a reminder that had she wanted to go in that direction, she absolutely could have beaten the likes of Elton or Billy at their own games—hell, she could have been a leading studio pianist without even ever opening her mouth. And while I've never actually heard him say it, I like to think Elton John (an avowed fan) had the same reaction to hearing her cover of his song as Otis Redding did (with admiration) when he heard her version of "Respect": "that woman stole my song." I mean, from literally the first line, when she's barely singing above a murmur, she's in complete and utter command—of both her voice and the song. And, of course, being Aretha, she just builds from there.
And yet the recording I keep finding myself going back to is this, for reasons which I suppose are pretty obvious.
As with the recent losses of Prince and David Bowie and B.B. King, there's a gaping hole in the soul left by their absence. But those holes are only there because those brilliant artists made room in the soul, stretching and pulling and pushing and enlarging, through their art in the first place. And for that we should be eternally grateful.
I've only ever really known the Earth, Wind & Fire hits, and while I've heard them enough for them to become part of my DNA, the deeper parts of their catalog have most escaped me.
Until today. When I heard this for the first time and immediately wondered how I'd ever lived without it. With the exception of a guitar solo, in just over five minutes it encapsulates all that is good about music.
It's the last week and I desperately needed something and when in need, Stevie is pretty much always the answer. I was actually intending to play one of his other early gems, but this one caught my eye, thanks in no small part to the typo in the title, and yeah, it did the trick.
And today I learned that Motown didn't release this song for a year after he recorded it, and only put it out when they did because apparently the Wonderful one was having voice troubles, so they dug through the box of unreleased stuff and found this and my GOD can you imagine this being a safety school? Talk about an embarrassment of riches.
There is so much to love about this clip. In fact, there is absolutely nothing not to love.
Carole King's out of her skull joy.
The president crying before the song's even 30 seconds in.
The Queen of Soul's piano playing, of which there is never ever ever enough. (Dear Unplugged people: why in the hell didn't you get her? Justifiably afraid no other would ever come close to measuring up?)
How she owns the lower register for the first 2/3rds the song, leading one to understandably recognize that she's 73 and no longer has the force of nature vocal chords she did as a young woman but can still more than bring all the emotion any singer could ever dream of?
Or when she stands up and shows that, yeah, no, she may have lost a few miles per hour off her fastball but she can still bring the heat with all the authority there is.
Or maybe it's at the end, when George Lucas, standing next to Carole King, is clearly thinking, "well...shit. My tribute wasn't nearly that awesome." Don't feel bad, George. Nobody's was. Nobody's could be.
This may be cheating ever so slightly as I'd never heard this song before five minutes ago but the fact remains it's the song I love more dearly than any other song I've ever heard before. And somehow the video is even better.
I just heard this for the first time today and I feel comfortable saying it's the greatest song ever. (Narrowly edging out "Where Damage Isn't Already Done.")
