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Inside the kivas of the pueblo
tribes of the American Southwest is a small hole in the ground
called a sipapu, which represents, according to Hopi mythology,
the place where the Hopi people emerged onto the earth. Bakersfield,
California is the sipapu of outlaw music. Indeed, Bakersfield
stands with New Orleans, Oakland and Memphis as a birthplace
of what might loosely be called American roots music. From those
parched labor camps emerged some of the titans of the western
country music: Ferlin Huskey, Spade Cooley, Wanda Jackson, Merle
Haggard and Buck Owens, who died last week. Bakersfield is were
country went electric, began to crib from rock and roll. Of these,
Owens may be the most familiar owing to his decades of service
on "Hee Haw". Although he was an innovative guitar-player,
perfecting that electric western twang which Gram Parsons and
Dwight Yokum (among others) later adopted, Owens was certainly
not the most talented ambassador of the Bakersfield Sound. While
Haggard and Husky's music matured and evolved over the years,
Owens submerged under the suffocating schmaltz of modern Nashville
that is anathema to rougher roots of outlaw country. Even so,
Owens' early recordings reveal the freshness and vitality of
a new kind of music being born. These are the recordings to remember
Buck Owens by, before the rot of "formula-ism" set
in.
A jazz opera about Malcolm
X. composed by one of the most gifted young black pianists of
the 1980s. One of the acute ironies here is that Davis is a devotee
of free jazz. Here every note is scripted, but the whole has
the feel of orchestral improvisation. "X." is remarkable
achievement that went almost unnoticed by the music establishment
when it was released in 1991 on the tiny Grammavision label.
Kudos to Rhino picking up this music and making it available
to a wider audience; and shame on Rhino for allowing it go out
of print.
Considered by some the Rosetta
Stone for American musical nihilism, "Rocket to Russia"
is either the greatest or the worst rock LP of the Seventies,
depending on which side of the bed you fell off of in the morning--assuming
it was morning (unlikely for most true fans of the Ramones).
Did American punk ever again reach the adrenal heights of "Teenage
Lobotomy" or "I Don't Care?" This remastered version
includes a couple of demos (though who could tell a demo from
a finished track with the Ramones?) and songs previously unreleased
in the states, such as "It's a Long Way Back to Germany."
Well, perhaps not that far, after all. Joey, you wouldn't believe
what's gone down since you departed the planet.
Here's another record, this
one by The Band's former front man Robbie Robertson, which is
either profoundly embarrassing or simply profound. On most days
I lean toward the latter, if only because of Leonard Peltier's
gut-wrenching rap on the song "Sacrifice" and the bizarre
"Rattlebone," which for some as yet inchoate reason
reminds me of Galway Kinnell's arresting poem of bloody metamorphosis
"The
Bear." Who knew that Native American beats could survive
translation into bohemian electronica?
In which "Sketches of
Spain" goes electric. Just as Gil Evans deserves at least
half of the credit for Sketches of Spain, bassist and synth-meister
Marcus Miller must be considered the driving creative force behind
Siesta, a soundtrack to the 1987 surrealist film directed by
Mary Lambert. These haunting improvisations, several of them
featuring guitarist Earl Klugh, have a shimmering, sun-scorched
quality to them. Davis and Miller don't try to recast Spanish
music so much as record musical impressions of the Spanish landscape
itself.
Frankly, I'm not that big of
a fan of the Dixie Chicks' music; the palette of their songs
is a little too bright and the production a little too lush for
my gloomier and grimier tastes. Never mind. I bought their latest
single anyway from iTunes as a show of solidarity for their courageous
refusal back down to the censorious bastards who run Nashville,
from the record execs, the radio stations and the industry music
writers, such as the abominable hack Chet Flippo, who advised
the women that they should just "Shut up and sing."
Kris Kristofferson had the best retort to that tripe, telling
Flippo and his paternalistic claque of C&W pseudo-patriots
to "Shut up and listen." Natalie Maines and the Dixie
Chicks did more than publicly denounce Bush, they showed the
world that the specter of the blacklist still haunts America.
And not only haven't they let it scare them off, they're fighting
back with a song.
Not Ready to Make Nice
By Emily Robison, Marty Maguire, Natalie Maines, and Dan Wilson
Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I'm not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I'm still waiting
I'm through with doubt
There's nothing left for me to figure out
I've paid a price
And I'll keep paying
I'm not ready to make nice
I'm not ready to back down
I'm still mad as hell and
I don't have time to go round and round and round
It's too late to make it right
I probably wouldn't if I could
'Cause I'm mad as hell
Can't bring myself to do what it is you think I should
I know you said
Can't you just get over it
It turned my whole world around
And I kind of like it
I made my bed and I sleep like
a baby
With no regrets and I don't mind sayin'
It's a sad sad story when a mother will teach her
Daughter that she ought to hate a perfect stranger
And how in the world can the words that I said
Send somebody so over the edge
That they'd write me a letter
Sayin' that I better shut up and sing
Or my life will be over
I'm not ready to make nice
I'm not ready to back down
I'm still mad as hell and
I don't have time to go round and round and round
It's too late to make it right
I probably wouldn't if I could
'Cause I'm mad as hell
Can't bring myself to do what it is you think I should
I'm not ready to make nice
I'm not ready to back down
I'm still mad as hell and
I don't have time to go round and round and round
It's too late to make it right
I probably wouldn't if I could
'Cause I'm mad as hell
Jeffrey St. Clair's music writings (as well as CPers Ron
Jacobs, David Vest and Daniel Wolff) can be found in Serpents
in the Garden. He can be reached at: sitka@comcast.net.
CounterPunch
Speakers Bureau Sick of sit-on-the-Fence speakers, tongue-tied and timid?
CounterPunch Editors Alexander Cockburn and Jeffrey St Clair
are available to speak forcefully on ALL the burning issues,
as are other CounterPunchers seasoned in stump oratory. Call
CounterPunch Speakers Bureau, 1-800-840-3683. Or email beckyg@counterpunch.org.