Tag: 1977

Annie Haslam – Annie In Wonderland, 1977

Guest post by grandiose melodrama connoisseur René Kladzyk (Ziemba)

“The stars are not so silent
As they seem
They sparkle for you
You’re gazing at me
Knowing that up till now
I never believed in love”

Songs in the air 
Everywhere
Telling me up ‘til now 
I never believed in love”

Annie Haslam’s voice is a ringing bell at the center of Annie in Wonderland, a 1977 maximalist pop adventure created in partnership with Haslam’s then-fiancé Roy Wood (better known as a founding member of Electric Light Orchestra, The Move, and the terrifying frontman of Wizzard). Haslam’s first solo album Annie in Wonderland was a major sonic departure from Renaissance, the avant-baroque progressive rock band fronted by Haslam. While the songs of Renaissance also orbited around the soaring purity of Haslam’s voice, it’s with Annie in Wonderland that Haslam’s expression became overtly romantic, igniting this sweeping and grandiose pop melodrama of an album.

At times choral, at times outright bizarre and sweetly silly, Annie in Wonderland oozes with a sense of wonder and a playful mysticism. The nostalgic excitement of love is also omnipresent, and the fun had while making it eminently apparent. In a 1999 interview, Haslam comments that this is her favorite of her solo albums, and that recording sessions would frequently get held up by riotous laughter, with everyone on the floor crying laughing.

A loungey cover of “Nature Boy” reapproaches the standard with a cinematic mystery; I’m eagerly awaiting the femme James Bond reboot featuring this song as our heroine drives along the ragged cliffs of the Italian Riviera. Meanwhile the excellent “I Never Believed in Love” draws clear throughlines to more disco-inflected and glammy songs in Electric Light Orchestra’s catalogue, like the Xanadu soundtrack that would come out a couple years later. Of course Roy Wood’s influence can be heard abundantly throughout the record, as he produced, arranged, played the majority of the instruments. He also did the album art, which includes several hints at specific references to the recording process.

The romance and divine sensibility of Annie in Wonderland carries through in Annie Haslam’s later solo work, especially in standouts like “The Angels Cry” from her 1989 self titled album, and can be spotted in Haslam’s visual art as well. Her current website features intuitive paintings of songs, custom painted musical instruments, garments, and pet portraits, all cast in vibrant and multicolored hues evoking sensuous dream worlds.

buy / download

Doji Morita – A Boy ボーイ, 1977

Gossamer folk ballads and cinematic string arrangements from musician, singer, and songwriter Doji Morita (stage name). Born in Tokyo, Morita-san began her musical career after the death of a friend, and made seven records in the span of her eight year long musical career. An intensely private person, Morita-san chose not to perform often or in large venues, and though she was signed to major labels, she avoided exposure and increased commercialization wherever possible. She wore a wig and sunglasses in most photos and live appearances, and eventually stepped away from music completely to focus on her domestic life. Sadly, she passed away a few months ago at the age of 65.

The records of hers that I’ve spent time with, such as the also excellent スカイ = きみは悲しみの青い空をひとりで飛べるか (Mother Sky), are all colored by her intense melancholy and nostalgia, and A Boy ボーイ is no exception. Spanish guitar, swelling and cinematic string arrangements, and hushed, forlorn vocals. I imagine that in addition to her folk contemporaries, Morita-san was heavily inspired by Brazilian, Portuguese, and even Cape Verdean musical traditions, with a lot of her instrumentation, vocal lines, and vocal inflections strongly suggesting morno (though she also nods to American folk and country in “君と淋しい風になる,” before submerging us in another particularly dramatic bath of strings). I suspect she was an Ennio Morricone fan as well.

Interestingly, at several points throughout the record songs cut off abruptly and are followed by snippets of what I assume are field recordings–the flapping of a bird’s wings, or rushing water. It’s a motif that appears on her other records, too, and I’d imagine it’s a textural nod to her interest in baroque folk and pastorality. This is a high drama and high reward record, and feels peak autumnal to me, so I hope you enjoy it.

download

Kimiko Kasai – Tokyo Special, 1977

A rare example of a Japanese jazz-fusion record that’s aged well. Kimiko Kasai is a jazz chanteuse and songwriter extraordinaire who’s worked with the likes of Stan Getz, Oliver Nelson, and Herbie Hancock (this record is killer if you’re into that sort of thing). Unlike a lot of Tokyo Special‘s contemporaries, the record isn’t front-loaded with single-worthy tracks but instead burns slowly and evenly, from its unhurried but brutally hooky start (“バイブレイション [Love Celebration],” written by Tatsuro Yamashita) to its rolling piano-jam finish (“待ってて [Laidback Mad Or Mellow],” written by Akiko Yano).

Kimiko’s vocals are terrific here, sometimes breathy and pillowy and elsewhere powerful and with admirable range. Even the obligatory slow jams are tastefully produced and never veer into cloying territory–I love “木もれ陽 (Sequoia Forest)” for its heady, misty backing harmonies, judicious use of chimes, and woodblocks that mimic birds and insects. Excitingly, you can hear the pre-city pop and AOR influences taking shape. If you don’t like smooth jazz fusion, I can’t help you. If you do, please step inside.

download

Peter Garland, Aki Takahashi & Essential Music – Another Sunrise, 2002



Guest post by Peter Harkawik

For the past few years, I’ve been fascinated by a certain thread of post-minimalist music that has taken the form away from its challenging, austere roots and more toward the melodic, etherial, and uplifting. Daniel Lentz, Mary Jane Leach, Paul Dresher, Elodie Lauten, and Andrew Poppy (whose Lost Jockey LP remains criminally out of circulation) have all made contributions in this direction. Wim Mertens is as responsible as anyone, publishing American Minimal Music, a text that helped introduce Europe to minimalism, in 1983. Perhaps my favorite though is Another Sunrise, a piece composed by Peter Garland for Aki Takahashi and Essential Music in 1995.

Another Sunrise continues a long intersection between Native American and minimalist music. Harry Partch and Moondog both constructed instruments inspired largely by those of indigenous peoples; the latter spent a summer in 1948 camped outside a Navajo reservation in New Mexico in a failed attempt to interest them in his music. Garland studied composition and ethnomusicology under Harold Budd and James Tenney at CalArts in the early 1970s, making extended stays in Mexico and eventually settling in Santa Fe in 1980, where he directed a performance ensemble. Sunrise benefits greatly from his long friendship with Aki Takahashi, a gifted and prolific avant-garde pianist who has collaborated with Tōru Takemitsu, Morton Feldman, Alvin Lucier, and Carl Stone. She is joined by Judith Gordon on piano, and four percussionists, apparently the product of an arrangement previously set up for a Paul Bowles piece.

 Another Sunrise is, from its first note, a showcase for the marimbula, an instrument of the Caribbean that shares a heritage with the African thumb piano. Its opening five bars form a simple theme that is the piece’s primary generative element. The titles of its short segments offer formal clues: mariachi, ballad, rumba, bolero, coda and finally, gospel. Vibraphone and marimba declare themselves halfway through “Ballad,” joined by dueling pianos. If it were not for the supreme beauty of the melody, Takahashi’s playing here would be almost violent, an urgent reminder that the piano is, after all, a percussive instrument. “Rumba” borrows only rattles and tempo from its namesake, followed by a quiet interlude in “Bolero.” Another Sunrise makes powerful use of its silent passages, and its circular, modal nature make for many moments when the piece feels it has concluded, only to continue in a thrilling steel drum crash. This is most true in the coda and final “Gospel Medley,” a deeply moving summation that calls to mind a congregation of enthralled worshippers. Part of my love of minimalist music is its ability to reveal itself upon repeated listenings, making it the ideal soundtrack for work that requires long stretches of sustained concentration, and this is certainly true here.

Sunrise is accompanied by two other Garland works, “Dreaming of Immortality in a Thatched Cottage” (1977, recorded in 1997) and “I Have Had to Learn the Simplest Things Last” (1993, recorded in 1995). “Dreaming” is a somber polyphonic work, beginning with a naked vocal harmony and slowly introducing an Indonesian angklung, marimba, and harpsichord. This marks Garland’s return to working with orchestral instruments after a period of abstinence apparently inspired by a brief friendship with Partch. “Simplest” was composed shortly after the death of John Cage in 1993, and is the collection’s most pared-down, most direct piece. It is broken into four segments that feel like a single supposition with divergent conclusions. Its final component, titled “I Found Them Like Seashells On The Beach (J. Cage)” is a passage of startling and profound quietude, and a fitting end, both for its subject, and this collection.

Cesar Mariano & CIA – São Paolo Brasil, 1977

Guest post by Paul Bowler (Universal Music / Twitter)

Cesar Mariano is best known as the producer, arranger, and one-time husband of Elis Regina, though he recorded a wealth of classic recordings as a pianist in his own right. Famed for his ability to swing, Mariano’s 1960s recordings with the Sambalanço Trio and Som Três masterfully paired jazz modes with bossa nova rhythms.

This 1977 album saw him shift towards jazz fusion, delivering an uncompromising take on the genre, full of dramatic tempo changes and neat Brazilian twists. “Metropole” begins with a hard-edged, Herbie Hancock-esque funk workout before slowing to a crawl of dreamlike synths, with the deepest of basslines and a dramatic, sprint-like finish. “Estação do Norte” switches from elegant classical piano to a Rhodes-led carnival of sunshine melodies, whistles, and manically charged percussion. Mariano’s unaccompanied, dextrous piano opens “Futebal de Bar” before a cavalcade of percussion is unleashed – cut frustratingly short. Standing toe-to-toe with the fusion greats, it’s little wonder that prices for original pressings are eye-watering. Grab a copy below.

[RIP] Suicide – Suicide, 1977

I was deeply saddened to learn of Alan Vega’s passing on Saturday. The reach of Suicide’s influence is well-documented, and Vega’s work needs no introduction. Produced by the venerable Craig Leon and allegedly recorded in four hours, Suicide has a permanent slot on every reputable list of the most influential records of all time. It was post punk before punk had actually figured out what punk was, it was true rock and roll because Vega was a teenager in the 50s, and it was two steps ahead of no wave because it evoked something apocalyptic without having to try so damn hard. It’s volatile and degenerate music, both in form and content. It sounds like trying to listen to music through earmuffs. It sounds like heat waves–dirty and shimmering. It sounds like nothing else.

I was lucky enough to see Suicide at Club Europa in 2007. In his signature checker-print skullcap, Vega was so focused and furious that he might have been casting spells, while Martin Rev, slithering around in a slashed tank top and wraparound sunglasses, looked like he belonged in the opening sequence of Blade. It was simultaneously brutal and hypnotic, and with the room soaked in unrelenting red light, it felt like a reminder that the punishment for suicide is hell. It was Disneyland compared to their riot-inducing bloodbath performances of the 70s, but to this day it’s still one of the best shows I’ve ever seen.

Thank you for everything, Alan–you will be missed.

Il Guardiano del Faro – Domani, 1977

Il Guardiano del Faro (“the lighthouse keeper”), aka Federico Monti Arduini, was a very prolific Italian musician, composer, and producer who was credited as an early adopter of the Moog synthesizer. Despite having had a slew of best-selling songs in Italy, there’s very little information available about him on the internet–I don’t even remember how this wound up in my hands! Really smart orchestral sensibility applied to lush, synthetic space-age smooth jazz fusion. Ideal cheeky retro-futurist bachelor pad soundtrack. Don’t miss the syrupy quavering cover of The Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes for You.”

[RIP] David Bowie – Low, 1977

Last night I heard about David Bowie’s death with disbelief. I don’t think I’m alone in my longheld, subconscious idea that Bowie, if not altogether immortal, would at the very least outlive us all. I then found myself in four simultaneous 2:00 am text message exchanges of Bowie memorabilia: remember this live performance, that outfit, this song, that photoshoot, this scene in that movie, that moment with Iman, this album cover, this phase, that feeling. For Bowie, pictures are worth plenty more than a thousand words, because words could never do him justice. Instead of trying to express our loss, we just swapped images and stared in awe.

We’ve learned many things from David Bowie, whether or not we’re aware of just how much originated with him. What I’m most grateful for is that he lived out a fluid sexual identity under global scrutiny, and recognized that the public’s thirst to know exactly “what he was” was simultaneously ridiculous and a tool to be played with. That was particularly inspiring to me growing up, as was his shapeshifting sound and aesthetic. To call him a chameleon is incorrect, because he never blended in with anything. “Lightning rod” might be more apt. He’s always seemed like a particularly sensitive vessel for creative thought, and he acknowledged that divine inspiration in his lyrics: “I will sit right down / waiting for the gift of sound and vision.”

I woke up this morning agonizing over which Bowie record to share today. Low needs no introduction and defies explanation, but it feels the most emblematic of the depth of his interests and emotions. It’s a record about alienation, and that alienation rubs off on the listener: by the time we reach the saxophone outro “Subterraneans,” we feel disoriented, cut adrift and unsure what just happened. I can’t help but think of his family when I listen to it today.

Safe journey, David, and thank you for everything.

The Congos – Heart of the Congos, 1977

It’s a little weird for me to write about what is arguably the greatest roots reggae record of all time. I avoided reggae for most of my life after too much exposure to some pretty uninteresting reggae at the hands of my adolescent stepbrother. The Heart of the Congos is the first reggae record that I connected with, and while I’m no aficionado, this is unlike anything I’ve ever heard (more knowledgeable writeup here, nice interview here). It’s odd that the exaggerated stoner aesthetic that reggae got saddled with has clouded the recognition of the music itself as an intensely mind-altering experience, sans drugs. This serves as an excellent reminder of its psychedelic nature, in the more honest sense of the word. With dense, melted reverb, Heart sounds as if it was recorded under a few feet of water. Brilliant vocal interplay and amazing diversity of sound, from the sprawling aquatic bass groove “Congoman” to the sinuous, fizzed-out “Can’t Come In,” with the famous robo-cows lowing throughout. The range of emotion is equally bewildering, from cripplingly pointed mourning to the peaks of joy with intense spiritual potency in between. The title means business: this is thick, this plumbs deep.

Note: there are quite a few different versions of this floating around–apparently Perry himself was unhappy with the original mastering and made some dramatic changes, and of course there have been a slew of reissues. Of the versions I’ve heard, I’m pretty happy with this one.

Clara Rockmore – Theremin, 1977

Clara Rockmore may have the coolest story of all the early electronic musicians. Born in 1911 in what is now Lithuania, at four years old she was admitted to the St. Petersburg Imperial Conservatory where she studied violin under Leopold Auer. To this day, she’s still the youngest student ever admitted to the conservatory (probably a good thing). A teenage arthritic condition left her unable to continue playing the violin, leading her to study the theremin (the first mass-produced electronic instrument, and arguably the coolest because it’s played by manipulating electrical signals in the air rather than by touching anything solid).

She was an instant theremin prodigy and went on to help Léon Theremin*, who might have been slightly obsessed with her, make a lot of changes to its design in order to realize its full potential. She insisted on a faster left hand to permit staccato, rather than having it be “all molasses, all glissando.” She also wanted a five octave range instead of three (which made it way harder to control the pitch but allowed for greater melodic possibility), increased sensitivity of the pitch antenna, and a lowered profile of the instrument. Despite touring extensively to widespread acclaim, she only finally recorded her performances at the behest of Bob Moog himself (as in “Ugh Bob made me do it lol”) in 1977. Thanks Bob! There’s a very sweet conversation between Clara, her sister, her nephew, Dr. Moog, and Dr. Thomas Ray which takes place over what appears to be a candy-tinted Tim Burton-esque dessert table that you can watch here.

*Read more about another insane thing that Léon Theremin made here.

TLDR: Nobody has ever inhabited the theremin like Rockmore. Maybe the original female electronic music virtuoso, as she was touring with her custom-made theremin in the 30s. Watch some videos of her channeling sounds out of thin air like a ghostly medium, face far away and ecstatic, and try not to cry. Otherworldly, but deeply human.

buy / download