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Not too long ago, your friends at Sex & Rock ’n’ Roll introduced a column entitled The Bare Necessities. The premise went a little something like this:
When it comes to music, there are two types of people: Those who care nary a shrug, and those who care to the point of hospitalization. As for the former group, they have no problem whatsoever uttering Kajagoogoo and The Stooges in the same blasphemous breath. Their blatant disregard for catalog numbers, dates of recording, and studio personnel inspires rage in the hearts of record geeks, who can't begin to fathom surface knowledge when it comes to something so biblically fundamental. The latter bunch? They tend to bask in the arrogance of their categorized-within-an-inch-of-its-life collection, which is invariably located in Mom's wood-paneled basement—safe from the real world and those scary, icky girls. They spend the bulk of their time corresponding with likeminded misfits, arguing the merits of Trout Mask Replica versus Bongo Fury-era Beefheart.
We fear both groups, each for different reasons. On the one hand, much as one should not be allowed behind the wheel of an automobile without basic knowledge of the rules of the road, so should one not be allowed into a record store without knowing the difference between, say, the Dead and Right Said Fred. On the other hand, overcompensating for low self-esteem and a worrisome lack of social skills with a flurry of abusive record-dorkisms is no way to go through life, son.
We want to see to it that our readers the world over have a superb CD collection—one that's neither too small nor too big; too selective nor too inclusive; too careless nor too pretentious. You're a busy person, trying to make sense of a new millennium; you can't be bothered with combing through record-store aisles, deciphering the good from the heinous. Then again, you can't live with Mom for the rest of your life, dammit!
We’ll sift through the heap, helping you build a balanced, essential CD collection, the kind that covers all of the essential listening groups— rawk, hip-hop, electronic, soul, etc. Hell, by the time we're done with you, you'll not only be able to hold your own at your local indie record store, but girls won't run the other way when they see you coming.
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Imagine, a column devoted to the well being of your CD collection. Swell, no? Well, seeing as aggressively awful music continues to sell at alarming rates, apparently you weren’t paying attention. Which is why we’ve taken it upon ourselves to continue the column—to keep foisting the good stuff upon your Sam Goody ass, whether it likes it or not, until you kick Clay Aiken to the curb, unhand Dan Fogelberg, and begin using that Billy Ray Cyrus thing as the coaster the good Lord intended it to be in the first place. Look, judging by the shape of your CD collection, you need us. Yes, need. More than you know. So, please, put the Wang Chung down, pull up a chair, and let the CD-collection-healing begin with these bare necessities right here.
Raw Power - The Stooges
The road to the ’77 punk revolution was paved with not a few misfits
(consider the New York Dolls, whose self-titled debut we profiled in our last installment) but none quite as profound and influential as Iggy Pop and his Stooges. Bordering on retarded, the four-piece had spent the bulk of their time reducing rock to its primary elements, dumbing ’em down somehow more, sharpening the edges, and spitting ’em out at dangerous velocities. By ’72, they’d become underground legends via circus-sideshowlike live shows and the soon-to-be-classic albums The Stooges and Fun House. But things were far from well. Not only had the boys been dropped by Elektra; they were coming apart at the seams thanks to impressive drug habits. Which is when David Bowie entered the picture, getting Iggy & Co. signed to Columbia Records and propping them up just long enough to record their final LP—one of the greatest rock ’n’ roll platters of all time, 1973’s Raw Power. The bowel-rumbling rhythm section, the blistering six-string, Iggy howling at the moon—Raw Power was the sound of a band reaching its end not with a whimper, but an atomic blast. From the white heat of “Search And Destroy” to the street-walkin’ menace of “Gimme Danger” to arguably the most rockin’ three minutes ever committed to wax, the positively primal “Shake Appeal,” Raw Power is essential to every collection. And all arguments be damned, it’s the first true punk album.
Desolation Boulevard - Sweet
Sweet was deceptive. On the surface, the London-bred quartet was nothing more than a prototype of a ’80s hair-metal band. But beneath the Aqua Net and leather, the group was a radio-friendlier version of glam faves Queen and T. Rex, all crunchy guitars and jackhammer backbeats underpinning irresistible bubblegum melodies. Powered by the songwriting talent of Nicky Chinn & Mike Chapman (later of Suzi Quatro/Smokie cult fame), Sweet had their first taste of U.S. chart success with a little ditty called “Co-Co” in the fall of ’71, shortly before rocketing to the Top 10 with the ear-candy anthem “Little Willy.” Toughening their songwriting approach while retaining their way with a hook, Chinn-Chapman and the group soon got to work on what would become Sweet’s masterpiece, 1975’s Desolation Boulevard. (The boulevard in question? A close look at the CD cover reveals the group standing along Sunset Boulevard.) Sure, there are some who say that Desolation Boulevard is a bunch of filler fitted around three fantastic singles, the bubblegum-glam classics “Ballroom Blitz,” “The 6-Teens,” and “Fox On The Run.” But those people don’t know WHAT THE HELL THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT! Clearly, they haven’t comprehended the majesty of “Set Me Free,” the Ramones blueprint “I Wanna Be Committed,” and “No You Don’t.” Simply put, with ten tracks Sweet delivered their career-defining collection minutes brimming with sunshine, sex, and pure, unbridled fun.
Get It While You Can: The Legendary Sessions - Howard Tate
In the late ’60s, only a handful of soul singers achieved that rare combination of artistic integrity and massive commercial success: Aretha Franklin, Wilson Pickett, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, being the biggest. Then there was a second tier. Not a lesser tier, but a second tier of talent who had all of the integrity of the big names, but for one reason or another, never reached the mainstream with anything resembling the same impact. Along with Garnet Mimms, James Carr, and J.J. Jackson, Howard Tate was one such artist, a Macon, Georgia, shouter who hooked up with Jersey songwriter-producer Jerry Ragovoy and, between 1966-68, recorded roughly ten singles for Verve, all of which have been gathered on Get It While You Can: The Legendary Sessions, including his three Top 20 R&B hits: the title track, “Stop,” and “Look At Granny Run Run.” Slicing guitars, piping horns, back-cracking beats—The Legendary Sessions is deep, burning soul of the caliber that Otis recorded shortly before his untimely death, with songwriting that could go toe-to-toe with anything coming out of Stax and Motown. By the way, if the name Howard Tate sounds familiar, it might be because last year, after a three-decade absence from recorded music—a time during which he’d faded completely from the public eye while preaching in Jersey—he reconnected with Ragovoy, recording the critical smash Rediscovered, and at last achieving the recognition that had for so long eluded him. But don’t jump the gun. Like anything else, sweet soul music has an natural order. Before rediscovering Tate, you’ll need to discover him. Begin with The Legendary Sessions, graduate to Rediscovered, and thank us later.
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So there you have it, Round 2 of The Bare Necessities. We understand—a taste of the finer things available at your local record store (assuming you don’t shop at the mall) has given you a hankering for more. Easy, tiger. Building the perfect CD-collection is an exercise in precision, an incremental process that takes study, care, and patience. Remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day, you have to crawl before you can walk, you don’t spit into the wind, and so on . . . Soon enough, you’ll be there. And you won’t live with Mom anymore. And you won’t CD-shop at the mall. And girls won’t run the other way when they see you coming. Stick with us, kid. Stick with us.
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