It’s Friday, I’m in love…

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Hi.

Happy Friday and everything. This week’s ‘list (that’s what the cool kids call playlists) has some old Bowie, Iggy, and Television; some new LUH (Ebony Hoorn and Ellery James Roberts, the gravel-voiced dude from WU LYF – they’ll be in the New Artist Spotlight soon) and Twin Peaks (Chicago, represent); stone classics from LCD Soundsystem (apparently a band again, and playing Lolla, wow), SM, and Siouxsie; noise rock from Bristol (FSA) and Christchurch (Roy Montgomery) on the same track; a Dead cover from The War on Drugs; Dylan being ’80s Dylan; and a couple of jazz tunes from our friends Thelonious, John, and Grant.

So, yeah. Good stuff. If you’re not following me on Spotify, what’s your problem? Get there and do that to snag this playlist, past IFIILO playlists, and rough drafts of future IFIILO playlists.

Have a great weekend. And have a great day. Love you, babe. XO

More soon.

JF

 

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Grateful Dead Weekly #6: Capitol Theater – Passaic, NJ 3/30/80

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On Sunday, March 30, 1980, the Grateful Dead played the Capitol Theater in Passaic, New Jersey.

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Jerry Garcia had performed at the former vaudeville house and movie palace since 1973, when both his Old and in the Way bluegrass group and his group with Merl Saunders played there. The Dead’s first shows at the theater came in a three-night run on their first post-retirement tour in 1976. They returned again for three nights in 1977, and one night in 1978. The 1980 run marked Brent Mydland’s debut at the venue.

The Capitol Theater was small, seating only 3,200. The Dead sold tickets for the three nights via a private “Deadheads only” lottery. Al DeZon, the theater’s production manager at that time recalled that many of the bands were “way too big to play there, but did anyway.” He added, “And of course, no mention of the Capitol and its denizens would be complete without mention of the many uncontrolled substances involved. There, I mentioned it.”

Dead members were familiar with such substances, which inevitably affected their performances. The early ‘80s were a mixed bag in that regard. Some nights, the band sounded great; some nights, particularly when Garcia’s heroin use was obvious, the band sounded not so great. This show probably falls on the not-so-great side of the ledger.

LMA reviewer Bill M was there, and said the highlight was New Minglewood Blues. He remembers the encore, U.S. Blues, for a certain guest appearance: “No one in seats around us (on floor near the back) had any idea who the guy doing cartwheels on stage during ‘US Blues’ was. Found out later it was Belushi.”

Yep, John Belushi sang backup for the Dead.  Here’s how Bill Kreutzmann remembered that moment.

Unattributed comments on the Jerry’s Brokendown Palaces blog also mention Belushi: “Eyes closed (watching the colors), just as I discern an extra voice on the chorus of US Blues, my buddy Bob elbows me in the ribs. So when I open my eyes, I look at him instead of the stage. His eyes wide and pied, he says, ‘That’s John Belushi!’ Belushi went on to do cartwheels (nicely punctuated by Billy) during Jerry’s lead, and sing on the chorus/coda.”

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And here’s LMA reviewer mrbill:

“I’m pretty sure I saw this show. It was the show where John Belushi showed up on stage during the encore, singing backup on US Blues. I’m not crazy about the Go to Heaven period — there was too much of Bob singing and Brent’s synth sounded like a little toy piano. My guess is that this is when Jerry’s heroin use began to accelerate. But this concert wasn’t bad and John Belushi deserves a star.

Capitol was indeed a small place. Tickets were available only through mail order lottery (and scalpers). Reason I brought up Jerry’s h-habit was not to be critical. It was really more in sadness than anything else. He was so f**king great and sadly, I can hear the decline in his music over the years.”

The final night of the run is notable, too, but not for a special guest. The show was April Fool’s Day, and the band members switched instruments for the Promised Land opener. Per DeadBase, Garcia and Mydland played drums, Bob Weir played keyboards, Bill Kreutzmann played bass, Phil Lesh played lead guitar, and Mickey Hart played rhythm guitar and sang.

Transport to the Charlie Miller transfer of the soundboard recording of 3/30/80 on archive.org HERE or a matrix recording on archive.org HERE. Or if audience recordings are your thing, transport to one on relisten.net HERE.

Oh, and in doing research for this post, I ran across a picture from March 25, 1980 at the Bammies (The Bay Area Music Awards). That’s Bill Graham, Garcia, Howard “Dr. Johnny Fever” Hesseman, and Francis Ford Coppola. Pretty cool.

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More soon.

JF

Jazz Is… #2: Grant Green

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Last week, I discussed the definition of jazz, and focused on improvisation. Another important part of jazz music is the so-called “blue note.” I don’t know much about music terminology or theory, so I consulted Wikipedia, which instructs that a blue note is sung or played at a slighty lower pitch than normal “for expressive purposes.” South African musicologist Peter van der Merwe, quoted in the Wiki entry, elaborates:

“Like the blues in general, the blue notes can mean many things. One quality that they all have in common, however, is that they are lower than one would expect, classically speaking. But this flatness may take several forms. On the one hand, it may be a microtonal affair of a quarter-tone or so…. On the other hand, the lowering may be by a full semitone–as it must be, of course, on keyboard instruments. It may involve a glide, either upward or downward. Again, this may be a microtonal, almost imperceptible affair, or it may be a slur between notes a semitone apart, so that there is actually not one blue note but two.”

And YouTuber Mike Powell provides an video lesson on electric guitar:

The blue note was an aspect of jazz from its inception, and the term became a label in 1939 when German Alfred Lion founded Blue Note Records in New York, with funding from Communist writer Max Margulis. Lion and Margulis were later joined by another German, photographer Francis Wolff, who, along with Esquire magazine artist Reid Miles, would go on to create many of the label’s distinctive and iconic album covers. (Andy Warhol, from HBO’s awesome new series Vinyl, did some cover art, as well.)

Originally, Blue Note featured swing-style jazz that was popular around World War II. After the war, Blue Note turned toward a newer sound, bebop, and even released the first recordings as a bandleader of our friend from last week, Thelonious Monk.

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(The Monk & Coltrane Carnegie Hall album from last week’s post was also released on Blue Note.)

Blue Note, however, became well known in 1950s as a label associated with bop’s decendant, “hard bop.” One of the label’s main ensembles was The Jazz Messengers, a would-be collective led by drummer Art Blakey. The Jazz Messengers and a rotating cast of its members—pianist Horace Silver; saxophonists Hank Mobley, Jackie McLean, and Wayne Shorter; and trumpeters Lee Morgan, Donald Byrd, and Freddie Hubbard—in various combinations formed the core of the Blue Note roster through the 1960s. Despite that intragroup synergy, however, the most recorded Blue Note artist during that time was a guitar player, the great Grant Green. He appeared on more Blue Note albums from 1961-65 than any other artist.

Green was born in St. Louis in 1935 and learned to play guitar from his father. He performed in local bands, later telling Down Beat magazine, “The first thing I learned to play was boogie-woogie. Then I had to do a lot of rock and roll. It’s all blues, anyhow.” He eventually toured with saxophonist Lou Donaldson, one of Blue Note’s artists, and arrived in New York in 1959 or 1960. Donaldson introduced Green to Lion, and Lion immediately put Green to work. His first session would not be released until 2001, but his next was released in 1961 as Grant’s First Stand.

Though Green was named best new star in Down Beat’s 1962 critics poll, his work was often overshadowed by that of other, more technical, guitarists, like Kenny Burrell and Wes Montgomery. Critic Nat Hentoff thought differently:

“I much preferred listening to him than to Wes Montgomery because one of the virtues of Grant’s playing was that he was very melodic. He always told a story, whereas a number of musicians – and I think Wes Montgomery is among them – they are so technically skilled that much of their playing is to show you how skilled they are, and they do it by very sophisticated harmony or rhythms, and the clear melody is often not apparent, is not immediate, whereas with Grant Green’s … he was like talking to you and to me . That’s always the best indication of a musician’s quality, that it’s conversational.”

Michael Cuscuna, who has overseen Blue Note reissues, agreed: “Grant executed bright, clean lines that never fully abandoned the melody, emphasized concise, linear , single note improvisations and possessed a unique rhythmic momentum that remains unmatched.”

Green’s tone was unique, crisp and very clear. Fellow guitarist and friend George Benson said that Green achieved it by turning off the bass and treble on his amplifier, maximizing the midrange of his instrument.  His approach to soloing was also unique, less influenced by fellow guitarists and more by horn players.  Green played single notes, not chords, and once admitted, “I used to sit up all night copying [saxophonist Charlie] Parker solos note by note.” In a review, a writer at the 100 Greatest Jazz Albums blog echoed that statement, saying that Green played in the style of guitarist Charlie Christian, but “with a strong sense that he was also transferring the directness of Charlie Parker’s horn to guitar,” and “[w]hen he played chords as an accompaniment, they were spared and used minimalistically.”

Today’s featured albums, Idle Moments and Solid, were recorded in 1963 and 1964.

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On Idle Moments, Green’s band included Joe Henderson on tenor sax and Bobby Hutcherson on vibes, with a rhythm section of Duke Pearson on piano, Bob Cranshaw on bass, and Al Harewood on drums. The entire record is great, but the long opening title track, written by Pearson, is its highlight. “Idle Moments” is a first-take, and somewhat of a mistake. The band planned to play the main tune twice, but there was confusion among its members about whether a chorus would consist of sixteen or thirty-two measures. Closing track “Nomad” is nearly as long and as good.

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Solid is also great, but inexplicably remained unreleased until 1979. The band there was somewhat different with Henderson and Crenshaw again appearing, but joined by James Spaulding on alto sax and pianist McCoy Tyner and drummer Elvin Jones from John Coltrane’s amazing quartet. (Tyner and Jones had just completed Coltrane’s album Crescent and would return to the studio to record stone classic A Love Supreme six months later.)  The highlight is Henderson’s “The Kicker,” which was performed by different Blue Note ensembles on Hutcherson’s album The Kicker (on which Green played, inviting a fun comparison) and Silver’s album Songs for My Father.

Green, notably, played on Lee Morgan’s Search for New Land, whose title track is one of my very favorite jazz compositions.

Morgan’s band for that 1964 album included Shorter and Herbie Hancock, both Blue Note artists, who would soon join Miles Davis in his second classic quintet.

Green’s heroin addiction sidetracked his career from 1965-67, but he converted to Islam, got clean, and returned in 1969 with a new funkier sound, which Cuscuna derided in the Solid liner notes as “commercial and lacking in individuality,” but others found more inspired. Green has been called the “Father of Acid Jazz,” and you can hear a template for contemporary bands like Medeski, Martin & Wood (particularly, in partnership with guitarist John Scofield) on Green albums such as Live at the Club Mozambique, recorded in 1971.

Green toured extensively through the 1970s, until he was hospitalized for ten weeks in 1978 after he suffered a stroke. Though doctors advised against it, Green was back on the road months later, driving as far as California to play the famed Lighthouse Café in Hermosa Beach, California. On January 31, 1979, returning home to play a show in Harlem, Green had a heart attack in his car. His son Greg, also a guitar player, said, “He should’ve never drove out there. He should’ve tried to stay home and get himself back in order. But he didn’t know how to do anything else. He probably would’ve died anyway if he couldn’t have played.”

If you want more, here’s Green’s Blue Note Retrospective:

And here is a complete compilation if his quartet work with Sonny Clark:

Finally, this post is a pre-birthday tribute to my best friend, MRH, a stay-at-home dad who proudly taught his first daughter at age three to say “Grant Green is king!”

More soon.

JF

HBO’s Vinyl Sucks

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Sunday night is when HBO’s Vinyl airs. I’ve watched six episodes, and each one has brought diminishing returns. This week, instead of watching, I’m blogging about it in the hopes that I can make you join the ranks for former Vinyl viewers like me. I’d say “spoiler alert,” but I don’t care if I ruin this show for you.

As Gavin Edwards said in the New York Times: “If you’ve got a particular fondness for the record business, or 1970s decor, or people grimacing after inhaling lines of cocaine, then this is the program for you.” There’s more to the show than that. One part is the music. OM told me that I should include music near the top of each post, so people can listen while they read. Fair enough. There have been a few of notable soundtrack covers, so far.  Here are three.

Tunde Adebimpe from TV on the Radio doing Looking Glass’ “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)”:

Aimee Mann doing the Carpenter’s “Yesterday Once More”:

And Neko Case doing Loggins & Messina’s “Danny’s Song”:

Another part is the problematic content. Simply put, Vinyl sucks. The writing sucks, the acting sucks, the directing sucks. The creative team includes Martin Scorcese, Mick Jagger, and Terrence Winter, who also worked on HBO’s Boardwalk Empire, so it should be pretty good, right? It’s actually worse than I could have imagined. Here’s an overview.

Richie Finestra (Bobby Cannavale) is the head honcho at American Century, a record company struggling for money and relevance. He’s also a cocaine addict, a bad husband and father, a cocaine addict, a terrible friend and boss, a cocaine addict, and a killer probably guilty of murder and vehicular homicide. Oh, and a cocaine addict. His drug use is near constant and cartoonish.

As the show begins, Richie is sitting in his car, hours after bludgeoning a radio dee-jay named Buck Rogers (Andrew Dice Clay) to death and hours before sabotaging the sale of American Century to a European label.  Why did Richie kill Buck? It’s unclear. A fracas began when Buck, on a two-day bender fueled by coke provided by Richie at a business meeting at a sex club (more on the show’s approach to gender issues below) as a good-will gesture to make-up for American Century artist Donny Osmond blowing off an interview, tried to kiss Richie. Richie punched Buck; Buck attacked Richie; Richie bashed in Buck’s skull with a radio award trophy. Richie dumps the body at a construction site or something, and then goes on his own bender the culminates in destroying a tv in his house with a vintage Bo Diddley guitar.

Ok, so later that night, Richie’s sitting in his car. He snorts some cocaine (Cannavale overacts – it happens a lot) and thinks about calling the cops, who visited him earlier to ask about Buck. He blows that off when a bunch of kids run past and over his car on the way to a show. Richie stumbles after them and into a New York Dolls show (that’s him in the middle of the header image) that is so powerful, it literally levels the venue. Richie, apparently, sees the light and decides that American Century needs to overhaul its roster, dumping has-beens (Osmond, Robert Goulet, and Dusty Springfield), sticking with established acts (Grand Funk Railroad, Savoy Brown, and England Dan and John Ford Coley), and signing up-and-comers. He tanks the deal with the Germans, which pisses off his executive staff, who had pretty much already spent the money that they stood to receive, and rants about rock.

After drug abuse, rock rants are his main gig. The rants are all really lame. Here’s an example, delivered during a flashback where Richie and his girlfriend/future wife Devon (Olivia Wilde) are watching a Velvet Underground & Nico concert: “They’re pure and real. Not the least bit concerned with developing a mainstream following.” I love the VU, and, from what I know of their history, Richie’s statement is at best a misapprehension of Lou Reed’s career goals, and at worst a fairy-tale misrepresentation that feeds into the biggest plot driver in the series: The purity of Rock ‘n’ Roll, as heard in the work of its classic artists, some of whom (the VU) appear in flashbacks from Richie’s life , and some of whom (Bo Diddley, Howlin’ Wolf, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Buddy Holly) appear as sort of apparitions or manifestations of Rock’s enduring spirit. Other artists, like Led Zeppelin, Alice Cooper, and hip-hop pioneer DJ Kool Herc, pass through as merely background. Spencer Kornhaber in a review of the series for the Atlantic called it “a classic-rock Forrest Gump.” That’s not off-base.

So, who else? There’s Devon, a former Andy Warhol muse and a wanna-be avant garde artist. At one point, she sells a Warhol painting of her for money to fund a fringe theater group. She and Richie have a shitty relationship. There’s his drug problem, which flares out of control after he was on the wagon for some period between the VU show in 1967 and Buck’s murder in 1973. They go to therapy, where they learn to take out their frustrations with each other by beating on couch cushions with tennis rackets. She’s marginalized by the writers and directors.

There’s Zak Yankovich (Ray Romano), Richie’s friend and business partner.  He’s a henpecked husband and father. At some point, Richie breaks his nose, and he ponders suicide in his car in his garage. He’s less marginalized than female characters, depicted as probably the most sympathetic guy on the show – yeah, a victim (particularly, a victim of women, like his wife and bat-mitzvahing daughter), but a really nice victim. There are other American Century execs, Skip and Scott; there’s a in-house producer guy, Julie Silver (Max Casella, who played Dougie Howser’s bff). There are the office underlings: Clark, an ineffectual, Ivy League educated A&R guy, who’s an asshole and gets his comeuppance for sucking at his job by taking the place of the “sandwich girl,” Jamie Vine (Juno Temple).

Temple is by far the best actor on the show (Romano is a distant next), and Jamie is by far the most interesting character. She’s got angles galore – a disappointment to her European mother (Lena Olin), working in a clerical position, but selling drugs to execs and musicians out of her desk, while trying to snipe talent as it walks in the front door. She does just that with prot0-punk band The Nasty Bits. (The Bits are a writing fallacy – a full-on punk band from England, shopping their wares in the States, circa 1973. The Stooges were around then, but the Ramones weren’t, and the Clash and Sex Pistols didn’t emerge for a few more years.) Jamie meets the band’s singer Kip Steven (James Jagger, Mick’s son) at the reception desk, and tells him that she’ll get his demo tape to the powers that be. Then she ends up naked in bed with Kip. Why? It’s unclear. He’s not attractive; he’s not smart; he’s not talented; he’s not even nice to her. A hook-up in the sexually liberated ’70s? Not really, because it happens again. And she ends up naked again. He’s naked once, but while his is sort of beside the point as he shoots up heroin in the buff and says mean things to her, hers is sexualized.

There’s gender bias all over this show. (Edwards in his episode four review in the Times discusses it.) Jamie is one example. Devon’s another, as the writers and directors decided it’d be cool to have Wilde strip for a photo shoot with an artist she meets through Warhol Factory-era galpal Ingrid. Devon and Ingrid canoodle in flashbacks, but that’s less about women’s lib and more about lesbian chic. In one episode, Richie asks Devon to come to a fondue dinner with American Century artist Hannibal, a caricature mix of Sly Stone and Parliament-Funkadelic’s George Clinton, who just started dating/having sex with Richie’s secretary Cece Matthews (Susan Hayward). Hannibal’s contract is expiring, and Richie wants to use his wife as bait for a new deal. Dinner turns into a night-cap at Richie’s city apartment (his house is in Connecticut, I think), and the dancing between Devon and Hannibal turns from slow to dirty. Richie pulls the plug on the evening, but he’s clearly turned on by watching an African-American musician grind on his wife, so he busts a move in the elevator, then screams at her because she’s “wet.” As in lubricated. Wtf. The dancing scene is tense and decent (Edwards: “Without much dialing, we see a stark tableau, a power struggle with women’s bodies as the battlefield”); the aftermath is bad. Yeah, Devon becomes angry and tells off her husband, saying that she understood her role and wanted to save the company. But the after-aftermath is bullshit. Devon’s nude scene is literally in the next episode. And in a flashback, Richie causes her to miscarry their first child in a car accident in which Ingrid’s paramour Ernst also dies.  Whatever.

In episodes five and six, another major female character emerges. Andrea Zito (Annie Parisse) is the person to whom Richie turns to save his company. She’s supposedly a music industry PR wiz, but she’s also his ex-flame pre-Devon. Every female character in this show is subservient to Richie. Let’s review. His wife, whose art career he ruined when he married her and moved her to another state; his new partner, whom he dated before his wife; his secretary, whom he sorta pimps out to one of his artists; and his employee, who’s having sex with another one of his artists to advance her career. And just as that artist is turning a corner, she’s dispatched to fetch pastries.

Aside from the gender bias, there’s race bias. The difference in how that stuff is treated is illuminating, though. The race stuff, as exemplified in a storyline involving Lester Grimes, a blues guitar player, whom Richie signed when he worked for another label in the early ’60 and convinced to record novelty songs (“The Cha-Cha Twist”) under the stage name Little Jimmie Little, is less problematic. Lester gets a raw deal: He never gets to record blues under his own name, and gangsters crush his windpipe when he refuses to record more novelty songs. But he finds a measure of redemption, and revenge against Richie, when he becomes the Nasty Bits’ manager and demands favorable contract terms for them. Devon’s measure of redemption and revenge? Taking off her clothes. Oh, and Cece’s reward for dating Hannibal? Watching him grope a her boss’ wife then leave American Century for a rival label.

Vinyl is reminiscent of Mad Men. Both series cover largely white male-dominated industries at times when minorities and women were treated poorly. To me, Mad Men always seemed to have an editorial take on that culture.Vinyl seems to have an exploitative take. Kornhaber, in his review, explained the difference: “[W]hile Mad Men took seriously the emotional and material tool on women and minorities from demeaning behavior, so far in Vinyl, piggishness is mostly just a punch line.”

Don’t watch this show.  It’s much worse than a waste of time. It’s mean and dumb.

More soon.

JF

It’s Friday, I’m in love…

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Happy Friday. Happy Belated Vernal Equinox.

On this playlist: A Tribe Called Quest (R.I.P. Phife); new stuff from Anna Meredith and Esperanza Spalding; old stuff from Soul II Soul and Neneh Cherry, remixes from Jamie xx, Four Tet, and Clams Casino; stone classics from guys named Stevie and Frank; and more. Lots more really good songs, as usual.

Listen on Spotify HERE, or on this very page…

Have a great weekend. And, babe, have a great day. See you tonight.

More soon.

JF

Jazz Is… Extra: Django Reinhardt’s Song for Brussels

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The tragedy of this week’s attacks in Brussels is neither explicable nor fathomable. Except it is. Something similar happened just four months ago in Paris. So the long-time rivalry between France and Belgium is irrelevant. Their differences have become unimportant in light of their shared struggles.

Struggles, however, are not the only thing that these countries share. Both were home to jazz guitar player Django Reinhardt.  He was born in Liberchies, Pont-à-Celles, Belgium, just south of Brussels, and grew up in gypsy camps near Paris.

After Reinhardt and his musical companion, violinist Stéphane Grappelli, gained prominence in the Quintet of the Hot Club of France (la Quintette du Hot Club de France), World War II began.  In 1942, during the Nazi occupation of Paris, Reinhardt kept playing, and recording. (Imagine how much the Nazis must have hated gypsies.) The Belgian label Rythme   organized the two sessions in April and May 1942 with a guy named Fud Candrix and his band. On April 16, Reinhardt recorded “Place de Brouckère,” named after a famous plaza in central Brussels, as his tribute to the city.

I was an exchange student in France in 1986, and we poked fun at les Belges. Later, one of my best friends in graduate law school was Belgian. Today, my best thoughts and prayers go out to both countries, and the people that I know over there.

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Gros bisous de l’Amérique.

More soon.

JF

Frank Zappa’s “Montana”

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Hi.

Recently, while listening to music for a last week’s IFIILO playlist, I played a Frank Zappa song. It made the list, and convinced me that I should listen to more Frank.

That’s what my good friend Jay calls him – not Frank Zappa or even Zappa, just Frank.  He’s a big fan, and I’m a relative neophyte. So I thought that asking him for a recommendation, and turning it into a blogpost, would be a cool semi-regular segment.

This time, here’s what Jay said: “You know, I really think some of his best guitar work was done on Over-Nite Sensation. And if I’m going with that, I think that I would have to go with ‘Montana.'”

Ok. I’m on it.

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Over-Nite Sensation was a 1973 album (art above) by Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, the handle that he gave various incarnations of his backing band. That album, which reached #32 on the chart, and its solo follow-up, Apostrophe (‘) were recorded at the same sessions, and both featured longtime Mothers George Duke and Ruth Underwood. Let’s say ONS is rated R for somewhat sexual lyrics (particularly, “Dirty Love” and “Dinah-Moe Humm”). But it also contains “Camarillo Brillo,” which, to me, is probably the most radio-friendly Frank song ever.

“Montana,” the last song on the album, is not about sex, as far as I can tell. It’s nominally about a would-be rancher, who dreams of moving to the Mountain West to raise dental floss. It’s funny, and whatever lyrical double entendre that Frank intended isn’t obvious. (I read some comments on a lyric site that indicated the song was either an allegory for pot smoking or a slam on SoCal hippies, who dreamed of a life somewhere else. Plausible interpretations, I guess.) The quality of Frank’s guitar playing is, and the solo that splits the verses is pretty great. Of the Ikettes’ harmonies, he later recalled:

“It was so difficult, that one part in the middle of the song ‘Montana,’ that the three girls rehearsed it for a couple of days. Just that one section. You know the part that goes ‘I’m pluckin’ the ol’ dennil floss…’? Right in the middle there. And one of the harmony singers got it first. She came out and sang her part and the other girls had to follow her track. Tina was so pleased that she was able to sing this that she went into the next studio where Ike was working and dragged him into the studio to hear the result of her labour. He listened to the tape and he goes, ‘What is this shit?’ and walked out.”

“Montana” became a concert staple for Frank, and a notable version appears on his live record You Can’t Do That on Stage Anymore, Vol. 2, complied from a series of 1974 shows in Helsinki, Finland. At one show, an audience member requested the Allman Brothers Band’s “Whipping Post.” Frank insisted that he didn’t know the song, and launched into “Montana.” The result: “Whipping Floss.”

And a version of “Montana” without the guitar solo was the b-side to the “I’m the Slime” single.

More soon.

JF