By Jordan
My Year in Lists chronicles one blogger’s quest to understand why music matters to us and what makes it a lasting aspect of our existence. To facilitate this examination, three music fans have contributed a list of 52 essential albums. Each week this year, one album off of each list will be analyzed in an attempt to understand why some music sticks with us and what it means for our lives.
“This may sound like sacrilege, but I think Ray Charles was more important than Elvis Presley… Who the hell ever put so many style together and made it work?”-Billy Joel
“Hey everybody, let’s have some fun. You’re only little but once and when you’re dead you’re done. So let the good times roll.”-Ray Charles, “Let the Good Times Roll”
When I was a teenager, life seemed a lot more intense than it actually was. This is a fairly common experience I think; when you’re young everything that happens is made much more important because it’s happening to you and no one can ever understand what you’re going through. The just don’t get it. After a particularly bad brush with heartbreak in my freshman year of high school (which seemed at the time of course like just about the end of the world) I went into the kind of depression the depths of which can only be known by heartsick 14 year olds. And then, one day, I discovered Stars album Set Yourself on Fire and in all its melodramatic glory it saved me from my far too serious self. For a while there, Stars was the only band I listened to because each and every song felt like a quiet peek into my soul. It felt like someone knew what I was going through and knew how to express it with all of the gravitas I thought it deserved. Now there are better break-up records, and there are absolutely more mature examinations of heartbreak and lust, but for the time and the place, Set Yourself on Fire was exactly what I needed. Over time, much of Stars music has come to seem sensationalistic and even slightly immature, but that album still holds resonance with me, if only because it reminds me of the person I used to be and the (hopefully) much better adjusted person I’ve become.
What I’m trying, in my own incredibly long winded way, to say is that sometimes music is our salvation. No one embodies this ideal more clearly than Ray Charles. He was born into poverty. His older brother George was drowned in a washtub at only four years old. When he was five, he began to lose his eyesight due to glaucoma and by the time he was seven he was completely blind. His father died when he was ten, and his mother followed when he was 15. Dealt the raw deal that he was, what was Charles to turn to for salvation except music (to be clear, I am not comparing some high school rejection of mine to the death of Charles’ whole family and his blindness. It may be a stretch, but I think he had it slightly harder)? He began his musical education at the Florida School for the Deaf and Blind in St. Augustine, where he was only trained in classical music. After the death of his mother, Charles didn’t return to school. Instead, he decided he wanted to play some slightly different music: rock ‘n’ roll.
While Charles recorded several pre-rock and roll jazz songs before, and would record many more after (later solidifying himself as one of the initial inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame) The Genius of Ray Charles, Collin’s pick for this week, ignores rock entirely for 12 songs influenced by rhythm and blues, vocal jazz, big band instrumentation, and a crazy little thing called pop music. Instead of breaking into the mainstream using rock and roll that refused to be ignored like his contemporary Little Richard, Charles won the hearts and minds of America by placing his own stamp on classics already familiar to his intended audience. The strategy paid off for him, and The Genius of Ray Charles was his first album that crossed over from the rhythm and blues charts and turned him into a Top 40 artist.
The album opens with Charles’ cover of Louis Jordan’s “Let the Good Times Roll.” With this song, and with this album as a whole, he proved to audiences that he was not afraid to sing someone else’s song, nor was he anxious to let the band backing him take center stage for extended solos. And he shouldn’t be. After the extended solo in the opening track, he jovially reminds us, “hey y’all, tell everybody, Ray Charles’ in town!” As if anyone could forget that regardless of who wrote the songs, or who was playing behind him, this album is Charles’ show. Following the opener, Charles covers “It Had To Be You” and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” two staples that were famous years, and even decades before Charles was around, yet he sings them with such confidence and verve that he leaves his own mark on each song.
“Deed I Do” showcases Charles’ relaxed showmanship and his bravado, while later in the album “Tell Me You’ll Wait for Me” and “Come Rain or Come Shine” give him more room to showcase his vocal talents, stripping back the big band feel and allowing Charles himself to shine through. Over the subsequent years, Charles would struggle with many more problems, from his arrest in 1965 for heroin possession (he admitted in court that at that point he had been addicted for 20 years) to the dissolution of two marriages (Charles eventually fathered 12 children with nine different women) and finally to his death from liver cancer in 2004, yet the music was always his salvation. Getting over his heroin addiction, he released the heavily biographical Crying Time which told of his troubles and so freed him from some of his heavy burdens. Sometimes music can be salvation. And really that was the genius of Ray Charles.
Sometimes music can provide satire and be used to communicate a bevy of ideas in a way that they might actually permeate mainstream thought. The band Devo, whose name comes from the concept of de-evolution, the idea that mankind is regressing instead of evolving and that things are getting worse, exemplifies the concept of an “idea band” (a term I am just coining right now, unless of course someone much more intelligent than me coined it a long time ago, in which case I’m very sorry and I didn’t mean to steal it. Please don’t sue me). Born as a punk band, Devo went on to represent post-punk music, utilizing synthesized sounds to create electronic art rock, which is basically a pretentious way to say that they created the sound of the future (though doesn’t it sound so much better when it’s all pretentious?). As much as they pioneered the genre they worked in (their album Duty Now For The Future, Ashley’s pick this week, was one of the first major records to rely heavily on synthesizers, influencing if not creating the entire New Wave movement that would emerge in the ‘80s), Devo also used their music to communicate some lofty ideas, usually using satire or outright parody to get the message across. In a complex takedown of organized religion, several members of the band publicly became members of the Church of the Subgenius, a postmodern mockery of organized religion. Carrying the gag even further, the band occasionally performed as their own opening band, pretending to be the Christian soft-rock group “Dove (the band of Love),” Dove being an obvious anagram of Devo.
Duty Now For The Future is an album packed with clever ideas and sly satire straight from the opening track, “Devo Corporate Anthem,” a reference to the film Rollerball in which regional corporate anthems are played before the beginning of every game. The album starts off with more of a standard punk rock sound with “Clockout” emphasizing guitar and drums over the synthesized sounds that dominate later tracks on the album. “Wiggly World” also has a rock feel, bringing the glam sensibilities of Ziggy Stardust-era Bowie to the post-punk electronic age. “Blockhead” has the band’s surrealist, satirical humor on full display and “Triumph of the Will” brazenly mocks facism and the films of Leni Reifenstahl.
By “Strange Pursuits” the album has totally devolved (as the band would probably prefer me to put it, though I’m not sure the term is accurate) from its punk rock origins into a completely synthesized electronic punk record. “Secret Agent Man,” the band’ neo-futurist cover of the Johnny Rivers song changes the lyrics to fit Devo’s satiric outlook, mocking religion and the government simultaneously while covering a song that was humorous and innocuous before they got their hands on it. One of the bonus tracks included on the remastered version of the album I listened to this week is a spoken word piece “General Boy Visits Apocalypse Now” which is played like a message from Devo Inc. outlining a conspiracy to use consumerism to coopt the human mind. As the messenger puts it, outlining perhaps the entire message of the album, “We must fight back. We must know what we want. We must want what we need. And what we need is duty now for the future.”
Devo has existed in one form or another for almost 40 years (forming in 1972 and releasing their most recent album, Something for Everybody just last year). The band is one of the most influential of the post-punk era, having formed the New Wave movement that influenced basically every “alternative” rock band in the 1980’s (again, that discussion of the term alternative is forthcoming, I promise). Yet in addition to this, lead singer/songwriter Mark Motherbaugh is a prolific composer, notably writing the theme song for Rugrats, the scores the first four Wes Anderson movies, and the music for several videogames, including the Crash Bandicoot series and the music for all of The Sims games. Most recently he wrote the score for the 2010 documentary Catfish.
Finally, sometimes music can be a support to lift up another’s work, as we will see as we return to examine three full length scores by Nino Rota. Last week I looked at the work of Rota in macro and talked about his influence. This week I want to look briefly (because I am trying to keep this column as short as possible each week) at the way his music supports the stories being told in the films he was scoring. Ideally I intended to watch all three films, yet a combination of time (I am currently preparing the upcoming installments of Whose Film Is It Anyway?) and my decision that I would likely end up evaluating the films more than their scores kept me from actually viewing them. So instead I will rely on the flawless Wikipedia for the summaries of the films, and on my own much less perfect analysis for the discussion of the scores themselves.
The film Rocco E I Suoi Fratelli (Rocco and His Brothers for all of us who speak absolutely no Italian outside of the word pizza) makes a good starting point as it is the only piece of Rota’s music we will examine here that is not directly tied to the work of Federico Fellini. Rocco was directed by Italian neo-realist Luchino Visconti and tells the story of a family from southern Italy and the slow disintegration of their close bond when they move to the north. The “dark drama” of the film (Wikipedia’s words, not mine. I tend not to throw around adjectives about movies I haven’t seen) seems readily apparent in the opening track of the score, “Introduzione E Canzone.” Rota clearly went more traditional with this film than he usually did on Fellini’s, which is apparent in “Terra Lontana” which sounds like a standard Italian score, more in the vein of his work on The Godfather films than in relation to any of the rest of his work.
Back in Fellini territory, the score for Giulietta Degli Spiriti (Juliet of the Spirits) is much more surrealistic, keeping in tune with the film, which follows a housewife as she explores her subconscious and the life of her free spirited neighbor as she tries to deal with her oppressive husband’s infidelity. “Amore Per Tutti” sounds like music to be played during intermission at a Broadway show (but, you know, better), while “Rugiada Sui Ranocchi” is a darker melody highlighting some of the demons Giulietta must face. And “Rosa Aurata-La Ballerina Del Circo Snap,” as its title implies, brings back the circus-esque feel we discussed last week.
Il Casanova di Federico Fellini is a biopic detailing the life of adventurer and writer Giacomo Casanova. The film portrays his life as he loses the respect of those around him in a reverie of sexual gratification. The opening “O Venise, Venaga, Venus” feels exotic and mysterious, while “L’Oiseau Magique” is the most atmospheric and experimental of all the Rota music I have listened to these past two weeks. Unlike the other scores we examined today, the score for Il Casanova features vocals throughout, especially prominently on tracks like “Intermezzo De La Mante Religieuse.” While Rota was an incredibly prolific composer and his work clearly stands well on its own (I can attest to that, as I did not watch any of the films mentioned above, yet still understood the emotions Rota was going for with ease), sometimes music can be used as support.
Salvation, satire, and support are just three of the ways we can use music to improve the world around us. When we’re at rock bottom, the right song can save us from ourselves. When no one seems to be listening, setting your clever ideas and silly satire to music can have the desired effect. And when something just seems to be missing, music is often just what’s required to fill that void. In the weeks to come I will examine and reexamine the ways we use music and what music means to us, yet I’m not sure if any week will express quite as well the diverse ways that music can improve and even save our lives. As a devo-ted member of the Church of the SubGenius might say, thank Bob for music.
Read more My Year in Lists here
Next week on My Year in Lists:
We’ll look at the self-titled albums Howlin’ Wolf and The Velvet Underground and Nico and hope Gang of Four can give us some Entertainment!
Showing posts with label Nino Rota. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nino Rota. Show all posts
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
My Year in Lists: Week One
By Jordan
My Year in Lists chronicles one blogger’s quest to understand why music matters to us and what makes it a lasting aspect of our existence. To facilitate this examination, three music fans have contributed a list of 52 essential albums. Each week this year, one album off of each list will be analyzed in an attempt to understand why some music sticks with us and what it means for our lives.
“When I’m creating at the piano, I tend to feel happy; but—the eternal dilemma—how can we be happy amid the unhappiness of others? I’d do everything I could to give everyone a moment of happiness. That’s what’s at the heart of my music.”-Nino Rota
“Rock ‘n’ Roll is part of a test to undermine the morals of the youth of our nation. It is sexualistc, unmoralistic and… brings people of both races together.”-Quoted in Charles White’s The Life and Times of Little Richard: The Authorized Biography
“All visceral, all emotional, all theatrical, all perfect—one of the best albums ever.”-Ned Raggett of Allmusic, on Joy Division’s ‘Unknown Pleasures.’
Music does something to us. At its worst it grates, annoys, and inspires ire more quickly than almost anything else. And at its best it takes us somewhere—somewhere emotional, somewhere intellectual, and yes, occasionally somewhere physical (whether it’s a journey to see a band play live or just a complicated undertaking on a little read blog quietly gathering dust in a back corner of the internet). Welcome to My Year in Lists, where over the next 52 weeks I will be going on a journey with anyone kind enough, or brave enough to read along. The purpose of this column is to get a better handle on music both from a critical and a societal perspective. To begin with, a bit of background. I like music (contrary to popular belief, my ear canal delivers sound to my brain, which enjoys melodious harmonies as much as the next guy, if not slightly more so), but it has never been my chief pop culture interest (anyone care to hazard a few guesses there?) and so I would hardly call myself an expert. So I went out and dragged some music-savvy people I know into developing a year long course through the musical history they laid out for me. It won’t always go in strictly chronological order, and since each list is arranged differently, we may be discussing shockingly divergent artists or albums on any given week, but hey, that’s part of the fun. If you find my analysis or efforts to put each album in context to be lacking, feel free as always to tell me so in the comments; I’m trying to improve as a critical listener of music and as a music writer through this feature, so you’ll forgive me if the first few weeks are a bit rocky.
As I already said, my expertise (if I can even go so far as to call it that, which I constantly question) is more in television and film, so it is somewhat appropriate that the first entry off of Tab’s list is a collection of composer Nino Rota’s work with director Federico Fellini, the aptly named Fellini / Rota. While I have previously discussed the potential importance of the composer to the success of a film (in my column on Sergio Leone, which touched on his partnership with Ennio Morricone), the focus here is on the music itself, and as Fellini / Rota includes only excerpts from several different Fellini films scored by Rota, I will be ignoring the films themselves for the moment (though next week, when Tab’s list allows us to look specifically at the full score to three different films, two of which were directed by Fellini, we will examine the way that music affects film more in depth) and looking just at how the music works on its own, and what lasting impact Rota has had on composing.
At his most upbeat and frenetic, the scores of Nino Rota can best be described as circus music with gravitas. The piece “The White Sheik” sounds like listening to the most awesome marching band in the history of mankind (though don’t ask me how the piano player is marching along with them so well), and a similar energy infuses “Boccaccio ’70 / La Dolce Vita” and to some extent “8 1/2.” As Rota himself said, one of the major goals of his music was to bring happiness to others, and much of his music feels like a joyful celebration of creativity and of the act of creation itself.
Rota managed to craft many tunes that bring joy to the listener, yet he did not gain his reputation as a master composer from creating ecstasy alone; he was also the master of making emotions turn on a dime. “La Strada” evokes tragic melancholy and regretful nostalgia before quickly becoming playful in a dark, street fair at midnight kind of way. “The Swindle” begins as a jaunty homage to the scores of Western movies (feeling just slightly like Morricone pulled through Rota’s frenetic energy) before becoming caught up in the joy of showmanship, much like one would need to pull off the caper of its title.
Rota, much like his contemporary Ennio Morricone, writes scores that often beg to be noticed, and I mean that in the best way possible. His work is so distinctive, it is still being mimicked today, nearly over 30 years after his death (similarities can be specifically noted in the theme for It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and in the entire score for Curb Your Enthusiasm). Regardless of the strength of Rota's work, he is often inextricably viewed as part of Fellini's whole. Separating the work of Fellini from that of Rota would be difficult, but then the question arises, why would you want to? The two work so well together it can be easy to forget the strength of their individual contributions. Rota’s music stands on its own shockingly well, while being indelible to each film to which he contributed. He will always be remembered first and foremost as the composer behind Fellini’s work (as well as the first two Godfather movies), but what makes Rota’s work undeniably essential is the sheer joy of his craft.
Another artist who can similarly be categorized as taking joy in the power of music is Little Richard, whose technical debut album (though he had recorded before and seen moderate success as a live performer and a member of The Upsetters) Here’s Little Richard is Collin’s first selection. Little Richard (born Richard Wayne Penniman) is widely considered the father of rock ‘n’ roll, and was one of the seven initial inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, as well as being one of four of those seven (along with Ray Charles, who we’ll talk about next week, James Brown, and Fats Domino) to have also won the Rhythm and Blues Foundation’s Pioneer Life Achievement Award. From the first, Little Richard was seen as a wildly inventive, showy, and charismatic live performer, yet he did not find success in the studio until 1955, when he began recording in the same manner he used during live shows, adding varied rhythms, using gospel style energy, moaning, screaming, and adding other vocal inflections to spice up his tracks.
The now famous opening of his hit “Tutti Frutti,” the first track on Here’s Little Richard, “A-wop-bop-a-loo-lop-a-lo-bam-boom” is based on an improvisation he had done on stage for years while imitating a drum beat with his voice. The song that follows is an incredibly memorable early rock jam about a man who only dates girls fortunate enough to have a primary attribute that rhymes with their first name. One of his paramours, Sue, knows just what to do. Another, Daisy, almost drives him crazy. I imagine there’s a Petunia out there very upset that Richard refuses to consider her as a possible romantic interest. “Can’t Believe You Wanna Leave,” meanwhile, is about a man who is incredulous that his paramour may want to discontinue their relationship. And “Baby” has Richard convincing a woman to shed her independence for his masculine charm. The theme of most of these early Little Richard songs is twofold: one, they are all about having sex with attractive women, and two, they are about rocking and rolling as hard as possible. “True Fine Mama” features some phenomenal piano work and “Long Tall Sally” has an improvised saxophone solo clearly displaying Richard’s tendency to record the way he played live.
During his touring in the 1950’s, Richard was notorious for the large orgies he would have while touring, and also became well known for inviting men back to his room to have sex with women while he watched. All of this turned around on October 12, 1957 (just months after the release of Here’s Little Richard shot him to superstardom) when Little Richard quit rock ‘n’ roll to become an evangelical preacher after seeing a ball of fire in the sky above a show in Australia that he read as a sign from God (but that was actually Sputnik crashing). Richard got lucky though, as the plane he was originally set to fly back on crashed over the pacific ocean, and he made out just fine, going on to preach and perform gospel music for eight years before “relapsing” into rock ‘n’ roll, a path he has been on with a few detours into preaching, ever since.
The musical influence of Little Richard cannot possibly be oversold (though he might quibble with me calling him the Jesus Christ of Rock and Roll). James Brown, Otis Redding, Elvis Presley, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, and Michael Jackson all count him among their most major influences. Both The Rolling Stones and The Beatles opened for him early in their careers. His knack for performing in garish, often sequined clothing was a clear influence on Elton John, and his hard to pin down sexuality arguably paved the way for figures like David Bowie (while Little Richard has had several lengthy relationships with women, he has said since the ‘90s that he has always been gay and has remained largely single for decades). He made history at a concert in Baltimore when excited audience members had to be restrained from jumping off balconies and police had to remove girls from the arena who had jumped onto the stage to get closer to him. He was also the first musician to regularly have women throwing their underwear at him onstage (which begs the question of whether Little Richard also invented the groupie). Yet Little Richard also had an important cultural impact, bringing the races together at a time still fraught with segregation and racial tension. At the beginning of his career, he by necessity played segregated venues in which whites were allowed on the floor and blacks confined to the balconies, yet he made a point of jazzing his audiences up enough that by the end of many shows the races had mixed together, bonded by Richard’s exuberant tunes. He later refused to perform for blacks-only audiences during the Black Power Movement because he refused to exclude anyone from the power of his music. Though he did leave rock ‘n’ roll for religion for a period, he eventually realized the potential power of music, and returned to impart his message as far and wide as he could through the power of some damn good rock music.
We’ve talked a lot so far in this first installment about music’s ability to bring joy to our lives, but that is not always the case. Specifically, for our purposes this week, that was not the case for Ian Curtis, the late, lamented front man of Joy Division, whose debut album Unknown Pleasures is Ashley’s first pick. Joy Division were among the pioneers of post-punk, which took the rebellious, outsider vibe that drove the punk music, and turned all of that anger and loathing inward, creating a much more introspective sound and paving the way for the alternative movement that was to come (though, as we saw in the introduction to this feature last week, there is an argument over whether or not the term “alternative” is a valid one, and that’s something I’m sure I’ll get into further in weeks to come).
While their influence on modern music is larger than a familiar cruise liner that sank during its maiden voyage, (everyone from U2 and The Cure to Interpol and Bloc Party refers to the band as a huge influence) what is often forgotten is how much Unknown Pleasures fucking rocks (which may not be a critical term, but is accurate nevertheless). Much is made of the later single “Love Will Tear Us Apart” (which we will discuss, along with a more in depth examination of Ian Curtis and of the band's impact a few months down the road), and yet this first album flows with pretty much no filler. From the first track, the stellar “Disorder” which opens with drums and guitar that pulls you right in (and seems strikingly familiar considering how many times its been aped over the years) and doesn’t let you go throughout to the more downbeat (emphasis on beat) “Day of the Lords” straight through to the slowly building guitar riff of “New Dawn Fades” and on into the insanely catchy and intensely personal “She’s Lost Control” (which details a girl suffering an epileptic seizure, a condition that also afflicted Ian Curtis and contributed in part to the depression that lead to his suicide), Unknown Pleasures is aptly named: it feels like coming home after a long night gone wrong to something comforting you never even knew existed. In short, it’s an outrageously strong debut from a band that was torn apart just as it was hitting its stride (though it would reform later as New Order, who we will also be discussing this year), and the sort of album with enough passion, verve, and innovation to birth a movement.
Taking the plunge into absorbing someone else’s musical taste for a year (or in my case, three other people’s taste) is a potentially nerve wracking venture, and I expect there will be some weeks when I have to fight to enjoy or understand something, but if this first installment is any indication, it should be a very exciting year. In future weeks I hope to talk more about music in general and more about each album in particular, while also making this thing about 500 words slighter (how do we think that’s going to work out?). For now though, I’m experiencing a moment of happiness that would do Nino Rota proud, even if anti-Little Richard critics might find it a tad lacking in morals. In short, I’ve lost control, and if it keeps feeling this good, I don’t plan to have it back for quite some time.
Read the introduction to this feature and to the people who generated the lists I'm following this year here
Next week on My Year in Lists:
We’ll dig deeper into Nino Rota and the relationship between composers and their films with the scores for Rocco E I Suoi Fratelli, Giulietta Degli Spiriti, and Il Casanova, find out what exactly is The Genius of Ray Charles and examine Devo’s Duty Now for the Future.
My Year in Lists chronicles one blogger’s quest to understand why music matters to us and what makes it a lasting aspect of our existence. To facilitate this examination, three music fans have contributed a list of 52 essential albums. Each week this year, one album off of each list will be analyzed in an attempt to understand why some music sticks with us and what it means for our lives.
“When I’m creating at the piano, I tend to feel happy; but—the eternal dilemma—how can we be happy amid the unhappiness of others? I’d do everything I could to give everyone a moment of happiness. That’s what’s at the heart of my music.”-Nino Rota
“Rock ‘n’ Roll is part of a test to undermine the morals of the youth of our nation. It is sexualistc, unmoralistic and… brings people of both races together.”-Quoted in Charles White’s The Life and Times of Little Richard: The Authorized Biography
“All visceral, all emotional, all theatrical, all perfect—one of the best albums ever.”-Ned Raggett of Allmusic, on Joy Division’s ‘Unknown Pleasures.’
Music does something to us. At its worst it grates, annoys, and inspires ire more quickly than almost anything else. And at its best it takes us somewhere—somewhere emotional, somewhere intellectual, and yes, occasionally somewhere physical (whether it’s a journey to see a band play live or just a complicated undertaking on a little read blog quietly gathering dust in a back corner of the internet). Welcome to My Year in Lists, where over the next 52 weeks I will be going on a journey with anyone kind enough, or brave enough to read along. The purpose of this column is to get a better handle on music both from a critical and a societal perspective. To begin with, a bit of background. I like music (contrary to popular belief, my ear canal delivers sound to my brain, which enjoys melodious harmonies as much as the next guy, if not slightly more so), but it has never been my chief pop culture interest (anyone care to hazard a few guesses there?) and so I would hardly call myself an expert. So I went out and dragged some music-savvy people I know into developing a year long course through the musical history they laid out for me. It won’t always go in strictly chronological order, and since each list is arranged differently, we may be discussing shockingly divergent artists or albums on any given week, but hey, that’s part of the fun. If you find my analysis or efforts to put each album in context to be lacking, feel free as always to tell me so in the comments; I’m trying to improve as a critical listener of music and as a music writer through this feature, so you’ll forgive me if the first few weeks are a bit rocky.
As I already said, my expertise (if I can even go so far as to call it that, which I constantly question) is more in television and film, so it is somewhat appropriate that the first entry off of Tab’s list is a collection of composer Nino Rota’s work with director Federico Fellini, the aptly named Fellini / Rota. While I have previously discussed the potential importance of the composer to the success of a film (in my column on Sergio Leone, which touched on his partnership with Ennio Morricone), the focus here is on the music itself, and as Fellini / Rota includes only excerpts from several different Fellini films scored by Rota, I will be ignoring the films themselves for the moment (though next week, when Tab’s list allows us to look specifically at the full score to three different films, two of which were directed by Fellini, we will examine the way that music affects film more in depth) and looking just at how the music works on its own, and what lasting impact Rota has had on composing.
At his most upbeat and frenetic, the scores of Nino Rota can best be described as circus music with gravitas. The piece “The White Sheik” sounds like listening to the most awesome marching band in the history of mankind (though don’t ask me how the piano player is marching along with them so well), and a similar energy infuses “Boccaccio ’70 / La Dolce Vita” and to some extent “8 1/2.” As Rota himself said, one of the major goals of his music was to bring happiness to others, and much of his music feels like a joyful celebration of creativity and of the act of creation itself.
Rota managed to craft many tunes that bring joy to the listener, yet he did not gain his reputation as a master composer from creating ecstasy alone; he was also the master of making emotions turn on a dime. “La Strada” evokes tragic melancholy and regretful nostalgia before quickly becoming playful in a dark, street fair at midnight kind of way. “The Swindle” begins as a jaunty homage to the scores of Western movies (feeling just slightly like Morricone pulled through Rota’s frenetic energy) before becoming caught up in the joy of showmanship, much like one would need to pull off the caper of its title.
Rota, much like his contemporary Ennio Morricone, writes scores that often beg to be noticed, and I mean that in the best way possible. His work is so distinctive, it is still being mimicked today, nearly over 30 years after his death (similarities can be specifically noted in the theme for It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and in the entire score for Curb Your Enthusiasm). Regardless of the strength of Rota's work, he is often inextricably viewed as part of Fellini's whole. Separating the work of Fellini from that of Rota would be difficult, but then the question arises, why would you want to? The two work so well together it can be easy to forget the strength of their individual contributions. Rota’s music stands on its own shockingly well, while being indelible to each film to which he contributed. He will always be remembered first and foremost as the composer behind Fellini’s work (as well as the first two Godfather movies), but what makes Rota’s work undeniably essential is the sheer joy of his craft.
Another artist who can similarly be categorized as taking joy in the power of music is Little Richard, whose technical debut album (though he had recorded before and seen moderate success as a live performer and a member of The Upsetters) Here’s Little Richard is Collin’s first selection. Little Richard (born Richard Wayne Penniman) is widely considered the father of rock ‘n’ roll, and was one of the seven initial inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, as well as being one of four of those seven (along with Ray Charles, who we’ll talk about next week, James Brown, and Fats Domino) to have also won the Rhythm and Blues Foundation’s Pioneer Life Achievement Award. From the first, Little Richard was seen as a wildly inventive, showy, and charismatic live performer, yet he did not find success in the studio until 1955, when he began recording in the same manner he used during live shows, adding varied rhythms, using gospel style energy, moaning, screaming, and adding other vocal inflections to spice up his tracks.
The now famous opening of his hit “Tutti Frutti,” the first track on Here’s Little Richard, “A-wop-bop-a-loo-lop-a-lo-bam-boom” is based on an improvisation he had done on stage for years while imitating a drum beat with his voice. The song that follows is an incredibly memorable early rock jam about a man who only dates girls fortunate enough to have a primary attribute that rhymes with their first name. One of his paramours, Sue, knows just what to do. Another, Daisy, almost drives him crazy. I imagine there’s a Petunia out there very upset that Richard refuses to consider her as a possible romantic interest. “Can’t Believe You Wanna Leave,” meanwhile, is about a man who is incredulous that his paramour may want to discontinue their relationship. And “Baby” has Richard convincing a woman to shed her independence for his masculine charm. The theme of most of these early Little Richard songs is twofold: one, they are all about having sex with attractive women, and two, they are about rocking and rolling as hard as possible. “True Fine Mama” features some phenomenal piano work and “Long Tall Sally” has an improvised saxophone solo clearly displaying Richard’s tendency to record the way he played live.
During his touring in the 1950’s, Richard was notorious for the large orgies he would have while touring, and also became well known for inviting men back to his room to have sex with women while he watched. All of this turned around on October 12, 1957 (just months after the release of Here’s Little Richard shot him to superstardom) when Little Richard quit rock ‘n’ roll to become an evangelical preacher after seeing a ball of fire in the sky above a show in Australia that he read as a sign from God (but that was actually Sputnik crashing). Richard got lucky though, as the plane he was originally set to fly back on crashed over the pacific ocean, and he made out just fine, going on to preach and perform gospel music for eight years before “relapsing” into rock ‘n’ roll, a path he has been on with a few detours into preaching, ever since.
The musical influence of Little Richard cannot possibly be oversold (though he might quibble with me calling him the Jesus Christ of Rock and Roll). James Brown, Otis Redding, Elvis Presley, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, and Michael Jackson all count him among their most major influences. Both The Rolling Stones and The Beatles opened for him early in their careers. His knack for performing in garish, often sequined clothing was a clear influence on Elton John, and his hard to pin down sexuality arguably paved the way for figures like David Bowie (while Little Richard has had several lengthy relationships with women, he has said since the ‘90s that he has always been gay and has remained largely single for decades). He made history at a concert in Baltimore when excited audience members had to be restrained from jumping off balconies and police had to remove girls from the arena who had jumped onto the stage to get closer to him. He was also the first musician to regularly have women throwing their underwear at him onstage (which begs the question of whether Little Richard also invented the groupie). Yet Little Richard also had an important cultural impact, bringing the races together at a time still fraught with segregation and racial tension. At the beginning of his career, he by necessity played segregated venues in which whites were allowed on the floor and blacks confined to the balconies, yet he made a point of jazzing his audiences up enough that by the end of many shows the races had mixed together, bonded by Richard’s exuberant tunes. He later refused to perform for blacks-only audiences during the Black Power Movement because he refused to exclude anyone from the power of his music. Though he did leave rock ‘n’ roll for religion for a period, he eventually realized the potential power of music, and returned to impart his message as far and wide as he could through the power of some damn good rock music.
We’ve talked a lot so far in this first installment about music’s ability to bring joy to our lives, but that is not always the case. Specifically, for our purposes this week, that was not the case for Ian Curtis, the late, lamented front man of Joy Division, whose debut album Unknown Pleasures is Ashley’s first pick. Joy Division were among the pioneers of post-punk, which took the rebellious, outsider vibe that drove the punk music, and turned all of that anger and loathing inward, creating a much more introspective sound and paving the way for the alternative movement that was to come (though, as we saw in the introduction to this feature last week, there is an argument over whether or not the term “alternative” is a valid one, and that’s something I’m sure I’ll get into further in weeks to come).
While their influence on modern music is larger than a familiar cruise liner that sank during its maiden voyage, (everyone from U2 and The Cure to Interpol and Bloc Party refers to the band as a huge influence) what is often forgotten is how much Unknown Pleasures fucking rocks (which may not be a critical term, but is accurate nevertheless). Much is made of the later single “Love Will Tear Us Apart” (which we will discuss, along with a more in depth examination of Ian Curtis and of the band's impact a few months down the road), and yet this first album flows with pretty much no filler. From the first track, the stellar “Disorder” which opens with drums and guitar that pulls you right in (and seems strikingly familiar considering how many times its been aped over the years) and doesn’t let you go throughout to the more downbeat (emphasis on beat) “Day of the Lords” straight through to the slowly building guitar riff of “New Dawn Fades” and on into the insanely catchy and intensely personal “She’s Lost Control” (which details a girl suffering an epileptic seizure, a condition that also afflicted Ian Curtis and contributed in part to the depression that lead to his suicide), Unknown Pleasures is aptly named: it feels like coming home after a long night gone wrong to something comforting you never even knew existed. In short, it’s an outrageously strong debut from a band that was torn apart just as it was hitting its stride (though it would reform later as New Order, who we will also be discussing this year), and the sort of album with enough passion, verve, and innovation to birth a movement.
Taking the plunge into absorbing someone else’s musical taste for a year (or in my case, three other people’s taste) is a potentially nerve wracking venture, and I expect there will be some weeks when I have to fight to enjoy or understand something, but if this first installment is any indication, it should be a very exciting year. In future weeks I hope to talk more about music in general and more about each album in particular, while also making this thing about 500 words slighter (how do we think that’s going to work out?). For now though, I’m experiencing a moment of happiness that would do Nino Rota proud, even if anti-Little Richard critics might find it a tad lacking in morals. In short, I’ve lost control, and if it keeps feeling this good, I don’t plan to have it back for quite some time.
Read the introduction to this feature and to the people who generated the lists I'm following this year here
Next week on My Year in Lists:
We’ll dig deeper into Nino Rota and the relationship between composers and their films with the scores for Rocco E I Suoi Fratelli, Giulietta Degli Spiriti, and Il Casanova, find out what exactly is The Genius of Ray Charles and examine Devo’s Duty Now for the Future.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)