Orange County Music Blog

Ever since I first heard Le Orme's “Ad Gloriam” in a set last September at The Prospector by DJ Frederick Phases, I've been enchanted with the song. Imagine if the Beatles ca. 1967 had grown up in Roma rather than Liverpool and had those extra-hot Italian women to inspire them to unparalleled heights of blissful psych pop—or maybe Os Mutantes if they were less spazzy and disjointed. That would be “Ad Gloriam.”

The accompanying video appears to be a montage from '60s-era films by Federico Fellini and/or Michelangelo Antonioni. Whatever the case, it offers enticing—if sometimes incongruous—eye candy for Le Orme's soaring, gossamer psychedelia. “Ad Gloriam” blossomed into existence in 1969. Held aloft by angelic vocals (Italian rockers can sing like motherfuckers), chiming organ, funky tambourine hits, and a serpentine guitar solo that triggers kaleidoscopic paisley shapes in your mind's eye, this tune surely was a hit somewhere, even though it barely made a blip on the Anglo-American consciousness. Such is the, uh, gloriousness of the tune (albeit tinged with a subtle wistfulness), though, that it ought to be made the national anthem of Utopia. I say that as a skeptic who doubts such a place can exist, but “Ad Gloriam” at least offers a glimmer of hope.

This is the final edition of Video Savant; my last day at OC Weekly is Aug. 1. It's been fun and then some. I want to thank all of my readers and whoever contributes footage—especially footage of obscure, amazing musicians—to YouTube. If you want to follow my scribblings in the future, find me on MySpace under “editaurus,” and I will keep you abreast of my textual adventures.

I'm about to leave on a trip for the Detroit area, where I spent my first 32 years, so allow me to indulge nostalgically in some of that city's musical lore. As deeply flawed as this Midwestern metropolis is, I still have fond memories of growing up there, and one reason was hearing the early songs of Bob Seger on the radio.

Yeah, Seger's music in the '80s turned as rancid as Kid Rock's bandana, but Bob's output in the '60s and first half of the '70s contains a monster truck's full of tough-as-beef-jerky Motor City rocknroll—and a handful of poignant slowies that could make Clint Eastwood shed a tear.

So let us now absorb the mighty power of “Heavy Music” which appeared on Smokin' O.P's in 1972. Truth in advertising or what? This is a garage-rock bomb made by dudes who believed they would live and fuck forever with wanton abandon. The rhythm is so elemental, pumping and stripped down—perfect for making cars and babies. Seger's voice is all feral soul and rampaging id, while the backing vocals haunt the periphery like a choir of satyrs. I can't even hear guitar or organ in this piece; it's all bass, drums, voices and hand claps, contoured like a potent phallus/missile for maximum cranial penetration.

“Heavy Music” is a party jam, but there's also a severe degree of danger animating it. Shake your ass, but watch your back, too, bro. And what a fadeout moment, as Seger wails, “Deeper! Deeper! Whoa! Whoa! We're goin' in now!”

I've listened to “Heavy Music” 10 times in a row now, and I feel as if I've guzzled a pitcher of unfiltered testosterone juice (but the non-douche-y kind). Still, best to keep your distance from me for a while.

Ultimately, “Heavy Music” makes me proud to be from Detroit. (But, please, dear Bob, delete forever “Like a Rock.” Thanks.)

Maybe you've seen the tabloidy stories lately about 61-year-old Rolling Stones guitarist Ronnie Wood. Apparently he's left his rather attractive wife of 23 years, Jo Wood, for 18-year-old Russian cocktail waitress Ekaterina Ivanova. Allegedly, on top of this scandalous development, the excellent ex-Faces axe-man has been downing two bottles (bottles!) of vodka a day. Just reading about that sort of prodigious consumption, I practically black out.

Well, judging from this article, Mr. Wood seems to be hell-bent on giving his liver the appearance of a screen door and almost outdoing his ex-bandmate Bill Wyman in the cradle-robbing sweepstakes. Nice one, mate.

But let's not rush to judgment about Ronnie's moral character. Let us instead discuss the man's unheralded solo work—specifically “I Can Feel the Fire” (oh, I bet you can, Ron) off his 1974 LP I've Got My Own Album to Do. (First, a word about Wood's getup, which Liberace might deem too flamboyant: Brian Eno circa Roxy Music's For Your Pleasure called and he wants his top back.)

Okay, the music. “I Can Feel the Fire” is a rare, outstanding example of white dudes assimilating reggae elements into debauched mid-'70s rawk shenanigans. The song balances summery, feel-good sway common to much reggae with a sweet wistfulness that inflated much of the Stones' post-Brian Jones output. Ronnie and Keith Richards make audacious love with their lean, glinting guitar lines while Willie Weeks (who isn't white, but play along with me) snakes out some sinewy, sinuous bass lines and Ian McLagan's organ oozes equal amounts secular soul à la the Band's Richard Manuel and sly sauciness. All reggae-rock bands should study this video and learn how to do that thing properly.

And, finally, confidential to Ronnie: more wheatgrass juice, less Grey Goose. Keeping an 18-year-old happy can be exhausting, brother.

My next Sprawl of Sound column contains a review of the Love Story DVD, an illuminating documentary about the phenomenal LA rock band Love, who somehow didn't reap the magnitude of success they should have. Just immerse yourself in the lysergically enhanced, orchestral-rock grandeur of Forever Changes for a week and then try to figure out why Love don't occupy the same prominence in the public's consciousness as the Doors, the Byrds and the Beach Boys do. Admittedly, a resurgence of interest in Forever Changes spurred by critics and numerous bands has arisen and maybe in another five years, it'll go Platinum, but this classic is still relatively obscure. But I'll take it over Sgt. Pepper's any day. You heard me, Jann Wenner...

Anyway, this edition of Video Savant focuses on a single recorded around the time of Forever Changes (1967). “Your Mind and We Belong Together” (released June '68) is one of Love prime mover/cracked-genius poet Arthur Lee's most striking compositions and the last gust of greatness from the group that recorded Forever Changes (Lee sacked everybody shortly thereafter and brought in a bunch of earthbound blues rockers for the next incarnation of Love).

“Your Mind and We Belong Together”—which took 44 takes to complete—is actually four songs woven into one psychedelic magnum opus. The track begins with urgently chiming electric guitar, which gets mimicked by an acoustic strum, setting the scene for some of Lee's most poignant lines:

I'd like to understand just why/ I feel like I have been through hell/ But you tell me I haven't even started yet/ To live here you've got to give more than you get

The tune carries a whiff of triumph before shifting into some Richie Havens-esque troubadourism. Those momentous chiming guitars return to herald another change into a sigh-inducing dream sequence of cloud-9 psych (“I'm lockin' my heart in the closet,” Lee sings here, against the grain of the euphoric music, adding, “I don't need anyone, oh no no no”) and then, as if this passage were too fluffily feel-good, Love take an abrupt left turn into some hard-boogie catharsis. The last 100 or so seconds feature Johnny Echols tearing off a scorching guitar solo that may not have kept Hendrix up at night, but it's still a flamboyantly flammable finale for a classic song—and a fitting way to close this immortal chapter of Love.

This promo film reveals a band bedizzazzled on some powerful substances. I wonder if they realized that those good, good times were about to stop rolling soon after, as their days of halycon turned into hell's eon. (And let us pause to mourn for the days when a major label would think that this sort of acid-fried tomfoolery made sound business sense.)

The lead-off track from his 1973 solo LP A Wizard, A True Star, “International Feel” is my favorite Todd Rundgren solo work. It's a concise demonstration of the era's state-of-the-art psychedelia (Todd was always ahead of the curve with regard to recording technology/gadgetry).

“International Feel” is a rococo glam ballad that eventually blasts off into outer space in a vaportrail of weirdly modulated vocals, phased guitars, filtered drums and glittery space dust. (Rundgren applies a subtle electronic shimmer/stutter to his vocals that sounds absolutely wicked on acid.) But the opening 25 seconds of analog-synth borborygmus (or is it guitar-generated?) still sound like something Stanley Kubrick could've used for a sequel to 2001: A Space Odyssey. Talk about a spine-tingling intro...

As the song proper starts to rev up, it becomes apparent that all of Todd's instruments, the studio mixing board and likely the man himself are slathered in potent hallucinogens. Everything sounds synthetic and hyper-real and larger than life. The tune tilts toward the sentimental, but that flaw is more than compensated for by the studio wizardry Rundgren wields as if he were some mad combo of George Martin, Jeff Lynne and Phil Spector—in the fifth dimension. The song's last 30 seconds propel you into a dilatory miasma of whirling sound dust that may be rock's closest approximation of what an astronaut hears as she rockets off this planet. Escapism rarely gets more awesome than this.

The YouTuber who posted this video deserves a lifetime supply of Owsley for his efforts. Below, peruse the lyrics for “International Feel,” which augment the music with just the right amount of vague cosmic ache.

Here we are again, the start of the end,
But theres more
I only want to see if youll give up on me
But theres always more
There is more, international feel
And theres more, interplanetary deals
But theres more, interstellar appeal
Still theres more, universal ideal
Still theres more, international feel
I swear something lies
In your ears and your eyes
cause theres more
You hear and you see yet you do not believe
That theres always more
(I know)

Todd Rundgren performs at the Coach House in San Clemente, July 3, 6 p.m., $32.50.

One of the fringe benefits of spending an afternoon at Mike McHugh's Distillery Studios recently to watch LA cult-pop figure Ariel Pink and band work on their next album was discovering the existence of a 1964 Russian film titled Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, directed by Sergei Parajanov (sometimes rendered Paradjanov). The group's drummer had the DVD in the studio and Matt Castille, who's producing Ariel Pink's forthcoming full-length, compared Shadows to Alejandro Jodorowsky's The Holy Mountain. Praise doesn't come any higher in my world, so I made a note to research Shadows.

I punched the title into YouTube's search engine and was duly rewarded with several intriguing clips. What stood out besides the striking, baffling imagery was the soundtrack, a devastatingly haunting and beautiful tapestry of what I assume to be Russian folk songs and also some sublime drones that one could imagine coming out on La Monte Young's Just Dreams label or VHF Records, a font of avant-garde drone production based in Virginia. Frustratingly, efforts to find out who's responsible for this unspeakably gorgeous and moving music have proved fruitless.

Essentially, Shadows is described as a “Carpathian Romeo and Juliet tale,” which, from what I've read and viewed on YouTube, is like saying Ulysses is a story about a Dubliner. New York Times' Dave Kehr observed: “With its vision of nature in Dionysian riot, its chorus line of extravagantly costumed peasants and its shifting point of view, it is hard to tell where ethnography ends in this extraordinary film, and where fantasy begins.”

Sounds like a must-see—and must-hear—film.

The Cool Kids are A+ students of old-school rap, and they make it sound so easy. The Chicago duo of Mikey Rocks (19) and Chuck Inglish (23) strip hip-hop down to stark funk beats, casual smears of bass, a bleep or blip or clap here or there and a laid-back flow that rarely rises above sotto voce. Their boasts are braggadoci(oh well) and they don't give a fuck if you believe the veracity of them. Think early Run-DMC crossed with Suicide (for the production) and LL Cool J on Quaaludes (for the delivery) and a staunch belief that less is more than enough.

The Cool Kids' new EP, The Bake Sale (Chocolate Industries), consists of 10 variations on this theme: blasé raps that ooze confidence and production so minimal you want to mentally fill in the gaps with sampled strings, chicken-scratch guitar riffs or brass stabs, but then you realize the tracks sound dope as hell as they are, in all their skeletal anti-glory.

After the unearned bluster of so much '00s hip-hop, the Cool Kids' slouching, heavy-lidded funk and understated self-awareness sound incredibly fresh. They've received a lot of hype so far, but to these jaded ears, it seems deserved. The Bake Sale is one of my favorite hip-hop releases of 2008, even if it is just a highly detailed and skilled parody of Reagan-era rap—though I believe the Cool Kids are sincere. Ultimately, though, I don't care if they're goofin' or troofin'. The Bake Sale is some lackadaisical, funkdamental awesomeness.

“Jingling” obviously refers to LL's “Jingling Baby,” but its laggard electro patter is much less hyper than Cool James' antecedent. The Cool Kids even acknowledge this when they rap about receiving a note that asks them to “pick up the pace.” But they steadfastly keep it chill, regardless. They rhyme “Spike Lee” with “They girlfriends want a guy just like me.” They flout thuggishness with “No sense in throwin' punches/Let's do lunch, man/You like me, too/Ain't no future in your frontin'.” In "Jingling," whispers trump bellows and backward-sucking sounds usurp boom-bap. It's a weird universe the Cool Kids inhabit, and I, for one, am grateful.

As you may have noticed, I've been immersed in a summer-song mindset the past few weeks in preparation for our Summer Guide. Of course, I had to include a Beach Boys song in the best summer songs feature; after much cogitation, I settled on the rather obvious “Good Vibrations,” but I just as easily could've included “Feel Flows,” which we'll discuss for this week's Video Savant.

“Feel Flows” is an oft-overlooked gem in the Beach Boys' catalog. It can be found on Surf's Up, a relatively subdued LP from 1971 that also includes another of my all-time favorite BB cuts, “'Til I Die” (covered by the Josephine Wiggs Experience, trivia fans).

Written by Carl Wilson and Jack Rieley, “Feel Flows” features the Boys' patented intricate vocal arrangement, tailored to induce maximum goosebumpage. The song's perfectly pitched between mellow elation and somber resignation. It's like a magnificently engineered roller coaster of profound emotions or some new kind of prayer for surfers, devoid of the group's earlier kitsch/cornball elements. The lyrics wax mystical and poetic about things like “White hot glistening shadowy flows” and “Unfolding enveloping missiles of soul” (oh, for acid as potent as it was back then...).

About a third of the way in, a weird section featuring guest musician Charles Lloyd's trippy flute arabesques and Carl's surprisingly warped organ and guitar locutions interrupts the song's dominant, almost Terry Riley-esque keyboard mantra and Carl's poised, pious singing. Just when you think your skin can't take on any more chills, this 90-second passage layers on the sublimity even thicker.

“Fun, Fun, Fun” it ain't, but damn if “Feel Flows” won't be giving you deep aesthetic pleasure till you're senile. “Feel Flows” convinces you that the Beach Boys occasionally could be conduits for something approaching the divine, even if they were some weird, damaged and obnoxious SOBs.

Sticking with the summer-song theme from last week's Video Savant on Ween's “Push th' Little Daisies,” let's examine the gloriously snappy “Bra” by Cymande. Sampled to devastating effect by De La Soul on 3 Feet High and Rising's “Change in Speak” and used on the soundtracks to Spike Lee's Crooklyn and 25th Hour, this hugely uplifting track from Cymande's self-titled 1972 LP is one of the greatest examples of Caribbean-flavored funk on record. (Cymande's members hailed from Jamaica and Guyana, although they were based in London during their early-'70s heyday.)

De La Soul producer Prince Paul looped the springy bass figure, sprung bongo/conga slaps, flute curlicue and triumphant brass motif for “Change in Speak,” but the vocal refrain, “But it's all right!/We can still go on!” and the bass/cowbell breakdown 3/5 of the way in also merit repeated listens and sampling (make sure you get permission for the latter, hustla). Ultimately, though, “Bra” is world-class, outdoor-party music, ideal for singing along to its hopeful lyrics and shaking your rump to its humid, intoxicating polyrhythms.

Lately I've been thinking about definitive summer songs for a feature that will appear in the Weekly's forthcoming Summer Guide. One of the stranger specimens I'm leaning toward is Ween's fluke 1992 hit “Push th' Little Daisies” off the sporadically brilliant Pure Guava album. (It reached #18 in Australia's pop charts and aired on Beavis & Butthead—that counts as a hit, right?)

For some reason, I associate (some) archetypal summer songs with a sol-drunk wooziness that verges on stoned immaculateness and/or lysergic bliss. Because summer's supposed to be about a respite from responsibility and reality, yeah? At least temporarily, at least in theory... even for workaholics who sunburn easily.

Ween's odd ditty fits the above description well. The flanged guitar and slightly swaying rhythm obliquely suggest “tropical,” while the Cartman-esque vocals nudge the track into helium-inhalation absurdity. I dunno about you, but if I hear a song about pushing little daisies done in such a goofy manner, I am overcome with a desire to meander leisurely in nature while tripping on funny fungus. Now that's some wholesome school's-out activity right there...