American Songwriter » Lyric of the Week

James Carr, “You’ve Got My Mind Messed Up”

Davis Inman — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 15:51:48 +0000

Though James Carr is probably best known for cutting the first (and some still say, best) version of Chips Moman and Dan Penn’s soul standard “Dark End Of The Street,” Carr, a troubled man who would not last long in the limelight, found his first real success in April 1966 with “You Got My Mind Messed Up,” written by O.B. McClinton, a student at Mississippi’s Rust College who would later find some success as a country singer known as the Chocolate Cowboy.

Carr was a Memphis contemporary of Otis Redding, borrowing generously from the Stax star’s vocal and production style. If “You Got My Mind Messed Up” sounds familiar, that’s because it bares a close melodic resemblance to “That’s How Strong My Love Is” as Robert Gordon points out in a 1992 article about Carr for L.A. Weekly. Redding’s 1965 soul smash was actually written by Carr’s friend and manager, Roosevelt Jamison, and previously recorded by O.V. Wright and released on the startup label, Goldwax.

In the early ‘60s, Jamison was an aspiring singer and songwriter who scouted talent for Goldwax and also worked as a hematologist. In a story with much of the typical aplomb of music business origins, Jamison introduced Carr to Goldwax’s Quinton Claunch one night at midnight on the label owner’s front door step. After hearing demo tapes in his living room, Claunch was convinced and signed the singer to a deal with the Memphis label.

“Messed Up” was Carr’s third single for the label, released in April 1966, and, as Jamison tells Peter Guralnick in Sweet Soul Music, would be the song that would begin to “make James’s dreams come true.”

Most of Carr’s early sessions for Goldwax were produced by Chips Moman, who would turn out to be another integral player in the singer’s career. The Georgia-born producer, songwriter, and guitarist had left Stax in 1961, subsequently opening a new studio in Memphis called American Sound. But Moman during this period was mostly “out on a wet one,” as Gordon so aptly describes in his book, It Came From Memphis. Some accounts place Carr’s early sessions at Sam Phillips’ new studio, Phillips Recording Service, which the legendary producer opened in 1960 at 639 Madison Avenue. In Roben Jones’ Memphis Boys: The Story of American Studios, Spooner Oldham recalls the late 1966 session for “Dark End Of The Street” being cut at Hi Studios.

One surety about “You Got My Mind Messed Up” is Reggie Young’s guitar playing. Moman had begun assembling a house band for American that would become famous as the Memphis Boys, including Young on guitar, along with bassists Tommy Cogbill and Mike Leech, drummer Gene Chrisman, and keyboardists Bobby Emmons and Bobby Wood. On “Messed Up,” Young’s guitar recalls Steve Cropper’s spiky licks, while the horns sound a lot like Stax’s Memphis Horns, which as Guralnick points out, they were.

“Baby, you got my mind messed up,” sings Carr. “Somebody just gotta help me.” Sadly, for Carr, who suffered from bipolar disorder and had social anxiety and motivation problems, the words would prove to be all too true.

As the ‘60s continued, Carr was increasingly difficult to work with, failing to produce material in the studio. By 1969, Goldwax was out of business and, though he left behind some great recordings, the man who some had once called the “world’s greatest soul singer” was on his way to being a might-have-been in soul music history.

"You've Got My Mind Messed Up"

Said I wasn't gonna
Tell nobody else
But I just can't keep it
All to myself now

For as long as I've
Been running around
I finally met a little girl
That really got me down now

Baby, you've got
My mind messed up
Little girl, little girl
You sure got my
Mind messed up now

I go to bed alone
And I can't sleep
Sit down at the table
Ooh, Lord, I can't eat

Somebody, please, please
Help me now, oh, oh, oh

Sugar plum dancing on in my mind
Every day you're with me
Seem like Valentine's now

I walked a rainbow, Lord
And I chained the moon
Walk around the world
And get back before noon

Baby, you've got
My mind messed up
Darling, sure got my
Mind messed up now

Eyes wide open, Lord
And I can't see
Anywhere the woman go
She can lead for me

Somebody just gotta
Just gotta help me
Oh, oh wee, oh, now

Baby, you've got
My mind messed up now
Sure got my mind
Messed up now

You my love
With all of my heart
I'll do anything
You want me to do

For you
I'd climb the highest mountain
Baby, for you
I'd swim the deepest sea

Anywhere you go
You can lead for me

I, I love you
Oh, I love you
I, I love you, baby

Written by O.B. McClinton

Martin Sexton, “Fall Like Rain”

Davis Inman — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 14:55:49 +0000

Martin Sexton is the guy John Mayer calls “one of the most treasured singer-songwriters I’ve ever heard in my life.” Mayer must have first become acquainted with the Syracuse, New York-born artist when he was busking in Harvard Square while Mayer was a student at Boston’s Berklee School of Music. The two Boston transplants have a fair share in common, namely how to write an unabashed pop hook and sing it with an expressive soul-inflected croon.

iTunes files Sexton’s music in my library under “country/folk,” but he’s just way too varied stylistically to be pigeon-holed into one genre. He’s got a rich baritone-tenor with remarkable range, able to float into the upper reaches of his instrument like a jazz clarinetist. That’s what happens when he sings the hook on the title track of his new EP, Fall Like Rain, his voice mirroring the free-fall of the lyrics.

On Sexton’s 2010 LP, Sugarcoating, he told American Songwriter he was interested in the theme of togetherness. At a time when the world struggled through a global financial recession and natural disasters in Haiti and Indonesia, he explained: “We need to see that we are the same more than we’re different. Because once we do that, we become even more empowered as a unified force of people. And if you have a population of people who really love one another, that’s a scary force to reckon with.”

But on his new EP, Sexton has turned from that far-reaching and universal message to one that’s more personal, though it will likely speak to everyone. He says Fall Like Rain and its title track are about “the spirit of searching and wondering how one might get along through life without so many crutches or pacifiers.

“Whether it's TV, or money, or sex, or drugs, or whatever,” Sexton explains, “Distractions--how one could be open to life on life's terms, to experience it fully.” That search for a deeper and more personal spirituality got Sexton thinking about “the idea of life, unencumbered by the shelters of our favorite distractions and the illusion of safety.”

While those thoughts were brewing in his head, Sexton says the writing for “Fall Like Rain” developed over time. In the same interview from 2010, Sexton made the point that inspiration tends to be a thing that comes early in one’s career, while now—ten records in—he relies more on craft and collaborators.

“I think when I first started out, it was more about inspiration,” he said. “Which is great, but usually inspiration, after the first record, or maybe the second, you can’t really rely on it. Because you’ve got your whole life to make your first record. And a few good moments of inspiration can make for a really good record. But after that, you’ve got a year-and-a-half to make your second one. And you’re busy; you’re out touring, and working, and whatever else it is that you do. So I think there’s more craft involved in my writing now. I’m also doing more co-writing than I did early on. Most of this new record is co-written. So I like to rely on other people’s strengths as well as my own.”

The chorus hook of “Fall Like Rain” had been haunting Sexton for years, he says, and he began to craft the lyrics and melody around it. Sexton recalls finishing the song this way: “I was sitting by the fireplace in my living room with my buddy Crit Harmon and we wrote it around the old mission oak coffee table. I had the chorus and Crit helped me sew up the lyrics. And I didn't have lyrics for the bridge so I just la-da-da-ed them thinking I would write lyrics later for it.”

“Fall Like Rain”

How do I know what I really need
Do I find it in church or watch it on TV
How far will I go just to feel alive
What crazy stunts will I pull just to see the other side

Will I read it in another book before I fall asleep from the pills that I took
Or hide it under my bed and dream my life away

I wanna feel, I wanna fall like rain
With no shelter so I can feel which way the wind is blowing today
I wanna love, I wanna see the world
Gonna tell the truth and feel the sun come shining down on my face

Can’t know the heat ‘til you’ve been frozen cold
Can’t feel young unless you’ve been growing old
How can you know love until you got a broken heart
Can’t get anywhere until you make a start

Take the pain dial up some will your world is spinning and you’re standing still
Take your dreams, don’t dream your life away

Written by Martin Sexton and Crit Harmon

Etta James, “I’d Rather Go Blind”

Davis Inman — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 15:07:57 +0000

Last Friday, the renowned blues and R&B singer Etta James died at a hospital in Riverside, California, outside L.A. James had battled health problems and years of drug abuse, but died from complications of leukemia. Though James had an early hit in her career with a song called “Dance With Me, Henry” (also known as “Roll With Me, Henry”) and success with a girl group called The Peaches in the ‘50s, the singer really hit her stride when she signed with Chicago’s Chess Records in 1960. She released two LPs in 1961, At Last! and The Second Time Around, both on the Chess subsidiary Argo. On the latter album’s cover, she looks out at the viewer with a wry smile and her trademark blonde hair. After a number of albums produced by one or both of the Chess brothers, in the late summer of 1967, James went to Muscle Shoals, Alabama’s FAME Studios for an album produced by the studio’s owner Rick Hall. The album, Tell Mama, produced one of her best songs, “I’d Rather Go Blind.” James told the story behind the song in her autobiography, Rage To Survive, a candid drug chronicle populated by junkies, dealers, and tales of trying to score (reminiscent of Keith Richard’s Life). The song was actually a co-write between James and a Detroit-based singer and songwriter named Ellington Jordan, who usually went by the nickname Fugi (sometimes alternately spelled Fuji), who was in prison. According to the book, James gave her co-writing portion to her partner at the time, Billy Foster, a member of the ‘50s Los Angeles doo-wop group The Medallions, for tax purposes. (“It bugs me to this day that he still receives royalties,” James wrote.) While Fugi poured his grief from being incarcerated into the song—he told an interviewer in 2006, “I got tired of losing and being down. I was in prison and didn’t know when I was going to get out. I sat in a piano room and began to write”—for James, the song was about being blind in her “love life” and her “personal ways,” she wrote. For many listeners, the two and half minutes of “I’d Rather Go Blind”--James’ heartfelt performance, the subtle tremolo-picked electric guitar, hovering organ, and swaying horn lines—conveyed so much of the emotion the singer must have been feeling. When Leonard Chess heard the song for the first time, he had to leave the room, crying. In 1968, Fugi recorded his own version of the song for Chess Records, backed by a Detroit-based psychedelic-funk group called Black Merda. Though a single “Mary, Don’t You Take Me On No Bad Trip” was released at the time on Chess sub-label Cadet, an album by the same name remained in the Chess vaults until 2005, when it was released by a New York reissues label called Funky Delicacies (owned by the early hip-hop concern, Tuff City Records). Fugi’s version also features trebly guitars as well as his own powerful voice, reminiscent of Marvin Gaye. The singer changes the song title to “I’d Rather Be A Blind Man,” while the chorus becomes: I do believe that a blind man would have an easier way to go For what he can’t see he sure can’t feel And his heart, his heart will never ever know I’d rather be a blind man, than to see you walk away from me… In 1978, James teamed up with Jerry Wexler and recorded “I’d Rather Go Blind” as “Blind Girl” for the Warner Brothers album, Deep In The Night. This version, with a slower tempo, saxophone-laden intro, and acoustic guitar, finds considerable new life in the song. In Rage, James wrote that she renamed the song “Blind Girl,” to make it “more specific to the confusion I was feeling.” Over the years, “I’d Rather Go Blind” has been covered by Rod Stewart (on his 1972 solo album Never A Dull Moment), Christine Perfect (later Christine McVie of Fleetwood Mac) with the ‘60s British blues group Chicken Shack, and Beyonce in the fictional Cadillac Records film and soundtrack. In Rage, James wrote about “I’d Rather Go Blind”: “Funny, but that’s a tune that’s deepened along with my life, it’s meaning growing more mysterious. Me and the song have grown old together.” "I'd Rather Go Blind" Something told me it was over When I saw you and her talking, Something deep down in my soul said cry, girl, When I saw you and that girl, walking out. I would rather, I would rather go blind, boy, Than to see you, walk away from me child, and all. Oh, so you see, I love you so much That I don't want to watch you leave me, baby, Most of all, I just don't, I just don't want to be free, no. I was just, I was just, I was just sitting here thinking Of your kisses and your warm embrace, yeah, When the reflection in the glass that I held to my lips now, baby, Revealed the tears that was on my face, yeah. And baby, baby, I would rather be blind, boy, Than to see you walk away, see you walk away from me, yeah Baby, baby, baby, I'd rather be blind now. Written by Ellington Jordan and Billy Foster

Chet Baker, “My Funny Valentine”

Davis Inman — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 16:23:49 +0000

The West Coast jazz trumpeter Chet Baker took an obscure show tune about a boy named Val from the 1930s musical comedy Babes In Arms and turned it into an enduring and haunting jazz classic. “My Funny Valentine” was written by the songwriting team of Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart and premiered in Babes In Arms on April 14, 1937, at New York’s Shubert Theatre. The two-act play centers around a group of teenagers who form a theater troupe led by a boy named Valentine White. In the musical, Val’s young admirer named Susie Ward sings the song to him. The collaboration of Rodgers (music) and Hart (lyrics) left an enduring legacy of songs (“The Lady Is A Tramp,” “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered”). In 1956, Ella Fitzgerald paid her respect to their talents when she tackled their songbook in a Verve 2X LP set. However, their partnership is sometimes overshadowed by the success Rodgers achieved with his second lyricist, Oscar Hammerstein. By 1943, Hart was on the descent, and Hammerstein the ascent, when the new team scored a hit with Oklahoma! Hart seems like a perfect foil to Baker. In a PBS biography, excerpted from the Dictionary of American Biography, Hughston Mooney provides a harrowing description of the songwriter. “Hart was perhaps even more than Cole Porter the expressive bard of the urban generation which matured during the interwar years 1919-41. Much of his work -- slick, breezy, and yet mordant, even morbid -- reflects their tart disillusion ... he was a restless world traveler and, especially after his mother's death, an alcoholic who disappeared for weeks on end to escape a life periodically unbearable.” Hart died of alcoholism and pneumonia in 1943. Baker, born to a musician father and doting mother in Yale, Oklahoma, in 1929, was preternaturally gifted at music. As a young man, he arrived in Los Angeles ripe for the lyrical, laid-back but also highly organized West Coast cool jazz sound that he would come to symbolize for many listeners. After a run as Charlie Parker’s trumpeter in the Quintet during the bebop giant’s stay in L.A., Baker joined the Gerry Mulligan Quartet – famous for its eschewing of the piano, entirely, as well as Mulligan and Baker’s simpatico styles. In 1952, the quartet cut four sides for the Fantasy label (high off the recent success of Dave Brubeck), recorded live at San Francisco’s Blackhawk club. Along with two Mulligan originals, bassist Carson Smith suggested a ballad called “My Funny Valentine,” which no one in the group had ever heard before. In James Gavin’s biography, Deep in a Dream: The Long Night of Chet Baker, the author discusses the song’s influence on the trumpeter. “The song fascinated Baker. It captured all he aspired to as a musician … ‘Valentine’ became his favorite song; rarely would he do a show without it, or fail to find something new in its thirty-five bars.” The instrumental version of the song clearly resonated with Baker (the quartet recorded it again for Pacific Jazz in 1953), but not long after the Quartet versions, he decided to do a vocal album and cut “My Funny Valentine” for Chet Baker Sings (1954). This first of many vocal versions of “My Funny Valentine” is a premonition of the pain to come in his heroin-addicted future—singing almost as if he was already on his deathbed. Though the singer addresses another person, it’s almost as if he’s singing to himself, about himself: lines like “my favorite work of art” and “your looks are … unphotographable” hint at the narcissism and selfishness that would come to dominate his life. Following Baker’s versions of “My Funny Valentine,” a who’s who of jazz and pop luminaries have covered the tune—Sinatra, Ella, Miles, The Supremes, and many others. In 1988, Baker was in Amsterdam for a performance. He scored drugs and checked into his hotel, but while sitting at the window to get some fresh air, Baker slipped—some say, perhaps decided he could fly—and fell to his death. In James’ biography, Emie Amemiya, the executive producer of the Baker documentary Let’s Get Lost, says, “Chettie was so gifted and so magical that what he gave out he could never, ever get back.” "My Funny Valentine" My funny Valentine, sweet comic Valentine You make me smile with my heart Your looks are laughable, unphotographable Yet, you're my favorite work of art Is your figure less than Greek? Is your mouth a little weak? When you open it to speak Are you smart? But don't change your hair for me Not if you care for me Stay little Valentine, stay! Each day is Valentines day Written by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart

Kevin Gordon, “Colfax”

Davis Inman — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 14:21:54 +0000

Kevin Gordon may be one of the most accomplished but underrated songwriters and guitarists in Nashville. His music is a swampy concoction of the blues and a kind of working man's poetry--probably a mix of a youth spent in Louisiana and the subsequent years studying poetry at the prestigious Iowa Writer's Workshop (where heavyweights like Robert Lowell and John Berryman once taught). Gordon has found considerable success in a behind-the-scenes guise, though. In 1997, Keith Richards teamed up with members of The Band to cut Gordon and Gwil Owen's "Deuce And A Quarter" for an album by Elvis Presley band alums, Scotty Moore and DJ Fontana, called All The King's Men. The song has Richards and Levon Helm trading verses and singing together on the song's great hook ("a deuce and a quarter ain't no Cadillac"), while Richards and Moore share twin leads on the song's signature lick. Gordon also writes the kind of earthy and sensual numbers that easily fit into the bizarre world of HBO's True Blood, which licensed Gordon's "Watching The Sun Go Down" in 2009. In February, Gordon will release Gloryland, twelve songs of sin and redemption set in the American past and present. The title track is a searing exploration of Americana blues-rock, with Gordon’s crunchy distorted guitar driving hard in the left speaker and the propulsive drums occupying the space in between. Gordon self-funded the album over nine months of touring and collecting donations from fans across the country and on the Internet, and recorded it in Nashville with producer Joe McMahan along with guests like Sarah Siskind and Lambchop members Scott Martin (drums) and Ryan Norris (keyboards). The album's centerpiece is "Colfax," which tells the story of Gordon's African-American music teacher, Mr. Minifield, who stoically faces down the Ku Klux Klan while leading the band at a football game in Colfax, Louisiana. Gordon describes his childhood in a hypnotic narrative of vivid, plainspoken images, such as this description of a high school crush: "Valerie/ Played clarinet/ 13 going on 35, sexy/ In a hard way, like a 1st cigarette,/ Bourbon spilled on a bare thigh." "'Colfax' is based on an event I remember from seventh grade," explains Gordon. "I’d been trying to write about it for years--musically it was completely different from what’s now the finished song on Gloryland. The groove was a 'two-beat' (2/4 time) blues, which felt great except that it seemed to demand that something incredibly dramatic happen at the end. Which isn’t what really happened, and wasn’t what I wanted to write." The song's focal point is Gordon’s spoken narrative, which unravels the action. The vocals are rhythmic and methodical behind a laid-back drum beat, a plodding banjo, and distant guitar echoes. As the story unfolds, there's humor along with poignancy in the lyrics. When the KKK is first viewed by the band members, a boy named Donald Lovelady says he thought they only came out at night. Then Gordon compares the red cross on the Klansmen's white robes to "an image of the suffering Christ/ Airbrushed on the side of a missile." But finding the right vehicle and tone for a deep personal history never comes easy for songwriters. "Sometime in 2007 I started over," continues Gordon. "A couple of singer-songwriter friends had written songs that were long narratives, where the verse is more about the pulse of the lyric than a complex melody or chord changes. So I went back, simplifying the verse progression and the groove--to a kind of flat foundation where long lyric lines could roll out and be the dominant element that drove the song. As soon as I did that, I had 90% of those lyrics within an hour. There were plenty of revisions, and the chorus changed several times before we recorded it for the album. For some reason it felt important to use actual first and last names of some of the people who were there that day--a kind of factual grounding, I guess, more documentary; plus, I just liked the way it sounded." The song's chorus is actually a second song title ("Step In Time"), a way of retaining the poetic purity of "Colfax," leaving the main narrative a powerful and stand-alone thing all it's own. The song is also a study in how to develop a musical theme over 10 minutes, with different instruments taking prominence at different times. After six minutes, a jaw harp and slide guitar replace the banjo. Later, xylophone plinks enter, and at eight minutes, gospel-style backing vocals and horns. By the last few minutes, "Colfax" is reminiscent of one of the more exultant and joyous moments from the Stones' Exile On Main Street, and this exuberance carries the song all the way home. The lyrical climax is, of course, Minifield as he marches on, "Like there was somewhere better/ He was going/ But this was the only goddamned way to get there." The "step in time" may be a literal reference to the marching band, but it's also Minifield as he looks "straight ahead" and walks on in the face of racism and prejudice. He's moving forward, just like history--and just like Gordon's song. "Colfax/Step in Time" I played trumpet in the band In 7th grade, blasting out songs At football games and fall parades We’d ride the bus To the small towns like Winfield, Downsville, and Colfax— In purple jackets and white slacks We were the Braves— We were the Jack Hayes Braves Named after a dead administrator And the noble ideal Of the young Native American male-- School ambassadors Of popular song and good will Mr. Minifield Was our director, skin the color Of a brown paper sack, he was black Trying to teach us white kids to play But confronted every baton-breaking day By juvenile delinquents, like Danny Amos Who locked himself into Minifield’s office, With my Ted Nugent double album; Playing “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang” Full-blast over the bandroom speakers And I remember Minifield, just sitting there Staring out into the air From the podium, smoking a camel Looking straight ahead Imagining himself Somewhere else, I’d guess Where he’d be getting paid More for less B.S. Tomorrow morning We’d be marching through What’s ahead from what’s behind Just another step in time Valerie Played clarinet 13 going on 35, sexy In a hard way, like a 1st cigarette, Bourbon spilled on a bare thigh-- (you could say she was ahead of the game) She’d barely speak to me So that 2-hour ride Felt like an all-day tense erotic dream, Staring out at the pine trees and red clay, And the country stores where inevitably An old dough-faced man would be standing outside-- Staring at us like his life going by And was that her leg, was that her leg Just brushing against mine? Riding on the bus Sitting next to Valerie Thrash Between what’s ahead, what’s behind Just another step in time The morning was cold The silver bell of my horn shining back Convex reflections of faces and hands And the yellow smear of the bus While I blew out my spit valve, Put the wax on my braces-- We were getting ready to play, Standing in line, moving in formation. First up, a Stevie Wonder song called Sir Duke, About Ellington (I didn’t know that then), Chameleon by Herbie Hancock-- Jungle Boogie by Kool and the Gang, K.C. and the Sunshine Band— Get Down Tonight-- That’s when I saw them at the end of the block Imperial Knights of the Ku Klux Klan In their white dunce caps And robes with red crosses Embroidered on Like gilded leaves on an automatic rifle Or an image of the suffering Christ Airbrushed on the side of a missile In broad daylight; Donald Lovelady said He thought they only came out at night— Like an apparition, Blood-real in the silver sun— Between what’s ahead, what’s behind Just another step in time They were handing out tracts To the Caucasian mothers and daughters And fathers and sons of Colfax-- Laughing and joking, kneeling down, Placing a gentle hand on a child’s blonde head Like santa claus, or the pope Like this was normal, like this was okay Another doo-dah day down in dixieland He didn’t say a word, Minifield didn’t turn his head-- Just kept marching Looking straight ahead Looking straight ahead Like there was somewhere better He was going But this was the only goddamned way to get there Today, with his baton in the air Looking straight ahead Straight ahead… Written by Kevin Gordon (Little Rain Music/BMI)

Jackson Browne, “These Days”

Davis Inman — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 14:36:47 +0000

Though Jackson Browne is often associated today with the social and political consciousness of his songs, "These Days," one of his earliest and often-covered compositions, deals with images of love, loss, and regret. “I wrote this when I was about sixteen, although not precisely in this form,” Browne says when introducing "These Days" on the 2005 live album, Solo Acoustic, Vol. 1. Browne actually first cut "These Days" under the title "I've Been Out Walking," for a 1967 demo tape for Elektra's Nina Music publishing arm, for whom he was a young staff writer in New York. The song was then given to Nico, the Velvet Underground singer and Warhol muse, for her 1967 solo album, Chelsea Girl. Browne himself plays guitar on her version, prompted by Warhol to play electric instead of acoustic to “sound more modern,” as Browne explains on the live album. The understated fingerpicked guitar opens the song's walk-down intro, hanging enchantingly on a C major 7th chord (played as an F capoed on the fifth fret) before Nico's vocal comes in, backed by a string quartet. At some point, Browne changed the song's middle verse, though Nico's version retains the original from "I've Been Out Walking": "I stopped my ramblin'/ I don't do too much gambling these days," along with its final contemplation, "And I wonder if I'd see another highway." By the early '70s, Browne was living back in California, but before he could take a stab at releasing his own version of "These Days," the song would travel down south for Gregg Allman's 1973 solo album, Laid Back. Released the same month and year (October 1973) as Browne's version of the song on his second album, For Everyman, Allman's "These Days" seems to steal Browne's thunder just as The Eagles had when they recorded "Take It Easy," a song Browne co-wrote with Glenn Frey, on their 1972 eponymous album. Browne actually based his own arrangement of "These Days" on Allman’s, crediting him on the original For Everyman album sleeve. The slow-paced steel guitar of Cowboy’s Scott Boyer, Chuck Leavell’s beautiful electric piano solo, and Allman’s self-harmonizing double vocal found new meaning in the song. Allman changes the phrasing of some lines, giving them a bluesier cadence, and the sense of loss in Allman's voice is unmistakable, coming shortly after the deaths of his brother Duane Allman and bandmate Berry Oakley. Browne's version of "These Days," recorded in Studio One at Sunset Sound, follows Allman's acoustic guitar-tracked pace, with David Lindley supplying slide guitar, and bassist Doug Haywood the harmony vocal. Jim Keltner's drums and David Paich's piano give the song the classic '70s folk-rock feeling of the early Asylum Records catalog (the label founded by Browne's manager David Geffen). In Barney Hoskyn’s book Hotel California, Browne is portrayed as “the nexus of the scene” in Laurel Canyon, which included other artists and groups like The Eagles, Bonnie Raitt, and Crosby, Stills, & Nash. For many contemporary listeners, "These Days" will forever be linked with Wes Anderson's 2001 film, The Royal Tenenbaums. In Anderson’s Criterion Collection commentary to the film, he talks about how the image of Gwyneth Paltrow (as the character Margot Tenenbaum) stepping off the green line bus to the sound of Nico’s “These Days” was one of the earliest pieces for the film. On Solo Acoustic, Browne says he had given permission for the filmmaker to use "These Days" in The Royal Tenenbaums but had forgotten about it, until he was sitting in the movie theater and the familiar electric guitar intro came on, though he didn't initially even recognize his own playing. While Browne's attention mostly seems focused on the bigger picture these days -- "it’s not really whether you talk about politics, but how well were you able to do it,” he told American Songwriter in a cover story in September 2008 -- it's the personal statement and succinct poetry of "These Days" that still resonate so well today. Bruce Springsteen, a longtime fan who inducted Browne into the Hall of Fame in March 2004, described the first time he heard Browne perform many years earlier. “As I listened that night I knew that this guy was simply one of the best," said Springsteen. "Each song was like a diamond and my first thought was, 'Damn, he's good.' My second thought was, 'I need less words.'" “These Days” Well I've been out walkin' I don't do that much talkin' these days These days These days I seem to think a lot About the things that I forgot to do for you And all the times I had the chance to And I had a lover And it's so hard to risk another these days These days Now if I seem to be afraid to live the life that I have made in song Well, it's just that I've been losin' for so long Well I'll keep on movin', movin' on Things are bound to be improvin' these days One of these days These days I'll sit on corner stones And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend Don't confront me with my failures I had not forgotten them Written by Jackson Browne

Ray Charles And Betty Carter, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”

Davis Inman — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 14:37:56 +0000

In 1960, following the pop success of "What'd I Say," Ray Charles signed a new record deal with ABC-Paramount. A new five-volume box set, Singular Genius: The Complete ABC Singles, from Concord Music Group covers this era, which followed his productive years at Atlantic Records.

Charles' post-"What'd I Say" career can be characterized by an exploration of a bigger and more orchestral sound, not necessarily leaving behind R&B, but adding more ornate country and jazz productions to his grand vision for popular music.

It wasn't long after Charles left his friends and supporters Jerry Wexler and Ahmet Ertegun at Atlantic for the bigger pastures of ABC-Paramount that he and jazz vocalist Betty Carter tackled the holiday classic, "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

First released in January 1962 as ABC-10298, "Baby, It's Cold Outside" (with "We'll Be Together Again" on the flip side) would go on to appear on the LP, Ray Charles And Betty Carter, released in August 1961. The single did not become a runaway hit like "Georgia On My Mind" and "Hit The Road, Jack," both released in the early years of his ABC career, but it did manage to make it into the Top 100. According to Billy Vera's Singular Genius liner notes, it was "inescapable on the nation's jukeboxes and on jazz radio in early 1962."

But in 1962, "Baby, It's Cold Outside" was already close to being two decades old, having had a long history as an entertainment industry party song, Oscar-winning motion picture hit, and a duet for some of the day's biggest stars like Johnny Mercer and Margaret Whiting (1949), Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan (1949), and Louis Armstrong and Velma Middleton (1952).

The tune was composed by Frank Loesser, a New York-born songwriter who worked in Hollywood and on Broadway, penning classics like "Heart And Soul" in 1938 and composing the music and lyrics to Guys And Dolls in 1950.

In 1944, Loesser wrote "Baby, It's Cold Outside" as a duet to sing with his wife. After performing it at a housewarming party, the couple became "instant parlor room stars" and began singing it at other entertainment industry parties, as recounted in the biography written by their daughter, Susan Loesser, A Most Remarkable Fella: Frank Loesser and the Guys and Dolls in His Life; A Portrait by His Daughter.

Loesser and his wife split up the song's dialogue, playing the male "wolf" and female "mouse," as the parts were dubbed in the original sheet music.

After five years of singing the tune together, Loesser surprised his wife when he sold "Baby, It's Cold Outside" to MGM in 1948 to be used in the romantic comedy film, Neptune's Daughter. Filmed partly in Florida and filled with polo and bathing suits, it hardly intimated the song's future holiday success. But, the tune caught on, with two performances in the film -- by Esther Williams and Ricardo Montalban and, in reversed roles, by Betty Garrett and Red Skelton -- and picked up the Academy Award for Best Original Song in 1949.

According to Susan Loesser's biography, one reason her father sold the song was to get out from under its shadow. "If I don't let go of 'Baby' I'll begin to think I can never write another song as good as I think this one is," he tells his disappointed wife in the book.

On June 14, 1961, Ray Charles and Betty Carter entered United Studios in Hollywood to cut "Baby, It's Cold Outside," giving the song a full arrangement by Marty Paich. It opens with strangely-ominous horn calls and Charles' piano responses, before Carter opens with the first line, "I really can't stay." Charles then comes in, speaking as if he's tired and greeting his wife reluctantly after a long day at the office, "Betty. It's cold outside." Carter sings like a bird in the high register, while Charles at one point growls his line with sexual innuendo.

The song certainly endures today as a popular holiday duet, with recent covers by James Taylor and Natalie Cole, Norah Jones and Willie Nelson, and this year entering the indie lexicon with Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward's version for A Very She & Him Christmas, where they make it a sped-up, reverb-y '50s hipster romp. (Deschanel also sang the song in a shower scene, along with an intruding Will Farrell, in the movie Elf, and with Leon Redbone for the film's soundtrack.)

But, of all the versions (and I must admit I'm especially partial to Ella and Louis Jordan's), the original must go down as the all-time great. NPR tracked down the very rare recording of Frank and Lynn Loesser's original duet when they interviewed Susan Loesser in 2006.

"Baby, It's Cold Outside"

Mouse: I really can't stay.
Wolf: But baby, it's cold outside!
Mouse: I've got to go 'way--
Wolf: But baby, it's cold outside!
Mouse: This evening has been--
Wolf: Been hoping that you'd drop in.
Mouse: So very nice.
Wolf: I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice.
Mouse: My mother will start to worry--
Wolf: Beautiful, what's your hurry?
Mouse: And father will be pacing the floor.
Wolf: Listen to the fireplace roar!
Mouse: So really I'd better scurry.
Wolf: Beautiful, please don't hurry.
Mouse: Well maybe just a half a drink more.
Wolf: Put some records on while I pour.
Mouse: The neighbors might think--
Wolf: But baby, it's bad out there.
Mouse: Say, what's in this drink?
Wolf: No cabs to be had out there.
Mouse: I wish I knew how--
Wolf: Your eyes are like starlight now.
Mouse: To break the spell.
Wolf: I'll take your hat. Your hair looks swell.
Mouse: I ought to say, "No, no, no, sir!"
Wolf: Mind if I move in closer?
Mouse: At least I'm gonna say that I tried.
Wolf: What's the sense in hurting my pride?
Mouse: I really can't stay.
Wolf: Oh, baby, don't hold out.
Mouse: Ah, but it's--
Wolf: Cold outside...

Mouse: I simply must go!
Wolf: But baby, it's cold outside!
Mouse: The answer is no!
Wolf: But baby, it's cold outside.
Mouse: The welcome has been--
Wolf: How lucky that you dropped in!
Mouse: So very nice and warm.
Wolf: Look out the window at that storm.
Mouse: My sister will be suspicious.
Wolf: Gosh, your lips look delicious.
Mouse: My brother will be there at the door.
Wolf: Waves upon a tropical shore!
Mouse: My maiden aunt's mind is vicious.
Wolf: Gosh, your lips are delicious.
Mouse: Well, maybe just a cigarette more.
Wolf: Never such a blizzard before...

Mouse: I've got to get home.
Wolf: But baby, you'd freeze out there.
Mouse: Say, lend me your comb.
Wolf: It's up to your knees out there.
Mouse: You've really been grand--
Wolf: Your eyes are like starlight now.
Mouse: But don't you see--
Wolf: How can you do this thing to me?
Mouse: There's bound to be talk tomorrow.
Wolf: Think of my lifelong sorrow--
Mouse: At least there will be plenty implied.
Wolf: If you caught pneumonia and died.
Mouse: I really can't stay.
Wolf: Get over that old doubt.
Mouse: Ah, but--
Wolf: Baby, it's
Both: Cold outside...

Written by Frank Loesser

The Smiths, “Half A Person”

Davis Inman — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 14:10:51 +0000

The Smiths recorded "Half A Person" in January 1987 and released it as the b-side to the single "Shoplifters Of The World Unite" the following month. But the band would not see the year through. When their final album Strangeways, Here We Come was released in September, guitarist Johnny Marr had already left the group. They were a band just four years.

On a new Smiths tribute album coming out on American Laundromat Records this week, the California singer-songwriter Greg Laswell does a piano rendition of "Half A Person."

"I found it to be a sort of snap-shot," says Laswell. "Like when you see a photo of yourself and you think, 'Is that what I look like?'"

The song is about a character who, at the age of 16, arrives in London and checks in at the Y.W.C.A. A woman writes the narrator a letter, saying she liked it more when the narrator was poor. The narrator has been looking for a third person too, for six years, hoping to share a five-second life story.

Smiths fans have often wondered if the narrator is a man or woman. Checking in at the Young Woman's Christian Association has led some to infer the obvious. But, Morrissey told the British music magazine The Face in 1990 that the song was autobiographical. Of the woman who writes the letter, he said, "Yes, that is all absolutely true. She does exist."

If we are to take the song as autobiographical, in 1975, at the age of 16, Morrissey was a young music fan in Manchester, who busied himself writing letters to music magazines like Melody Maker and NME. The Smiths wouldn't form for another six years, until 1982.

Of course, Morrissey lyrics attract plenty of controversy, and often are blurry along the lines of gender and sexuality. In the same interview with The Face, Morrissey said that he was not interested in relationships because the people he was attracted to were never attracted to him. That sounds a bit like someone who would trail a person for six years.

According to Simon Godard's Mozipedia, an encyclopedia dedicated to all things Morrissey, the second line in "Half A Person" might well be an homage to one of the singer's favorite lyricists, Joni Mitchell. In Mitchell's "Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter," from her 1977 jazz fusion album of the same name, she sings, “I came out two days on your tail.”

Morrissey has not been any more helpful shedding light on his song's narrative. Introducing "Half A Person" in New York in 2000, he said simply, "This is about someone who's not really a full person." Then added sarcastically, "Who could that be? I've no idea."

Asked if Laswell thinks the song is about "a socially maladjusted freak," as one critic recently wrote, he disagrees.

"I don't think it's about a freak at all," says Laswell.

"Half A Person"

Call me morbid, call me pale
I've spent six years on your trail
Six long years
On your trail

Call me morbid, call me pale
I've spent six years on your trail
Six full years of my life on your trail

And if you have five seconds to spare
Then I'll tell you the story of my life
Sixteen, clumsy and shy
I went to London and died
I booked myself in at the Y.W.C.A.
I said, "I like it here, can I stay?
I like it here, can I stay?
Do you have a vacancy
For a back-scrubber?"

She was left behind, and sour
And she wrote to me, equally dour
She said, "In the days when you were
Hopelessly poor
I just liked you more."

Call me morbid, call me pale
I've spent too long on your trail
Far too long
Chasing your tail

And if you have five seconds to spare
Then I'll tell you the story of my life
Sixteen, clumsy and shy
That's the story of my life
Sixteen, clumsy and shy
The story of my life...

Written by Steven Morrissey and Johnny Marr

Hank Williams, “I’ll Never Get Out Of This World Alive”

Davis Inman — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 15:30:57 +0000

"I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive," recorded in June 1952, was one of the last songs Hank Williams ever cut. Released just a month before he died on New Years Day 1953, it became a hit and enduring classic, both a tongue-in-cheek play on words and intimation of life's brevity.

In Paul Hemphill's 2005 biography Lovesick Blues: The Life of Hank Williams, the author (who penned the seminal The Nashville Sound: Bright Lights and Country Music in 1970) describes the state of the country singer leading up to the June session. Williams was the Opry's biggest star, and the string of dates that had been arranged for him across the country was starting to wear on him. He was booked for two weeks at Las Vegas' Last Frontier, but the engagement was cut short after a week, so Williams, steel guitarist Don Helms, and fiddle player Jerry Rivers headed home to Nashville.

Back in Nashville, the band entered Castle Studios on Friday, June 13, 1952, and recorded four songs: "Window Shopping," "Jambalaya," "Settin' The Woods On Fire," and finally, "I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive."

According to Colin Escott's major 1994 biography of Williams, the four-song session took place from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. that day and featured both Jerry Rivers and Don Helms, bassist Charles "Indian" Wright, and a young Chet Atkins on electric guitar. Atkins remains one of the best sources on what happened in the studio that day. He described Williams' condition at the session to interviewer Alanna Nash: "After each take, he'd sit down in a chair. I remember thinking, 'Hoss, you're not just jivin',' because he was so weak that all he could do was just sing a few lines, and then just fall in the chair."

If Williams' health was failing, things were also not super in his personal life. On July 10, his divorce from Audrey Williams was finalized and he soon hit the studio again and recorded "You Win Again," an obvious kiss-off to his ex-wife's bounteous settlement (she got half of his future royalties).

But, later in the summer of 1952, Williams met Billie Jean Jones, a 19-year-old brunette from Louisiana, backstage at the Opry. At his very last session, on September 23, 1952, he recorded "I Could Never Be Ashamed Of You" (for Jones), "Your Cheatin' Heart" (for Audrey), "Kaw-Liga," and "Take These Chains From My Heart," which would be his final studio recording.

On November 21, 1952, MGM released "I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive" backed with "I Could Never Be Ashamed Of You" as a 78 rpm single, numbered 11366.

"I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive" is one of the many Williams tunes that shares co-writing credit with publisher Fred Rose. Much has been made of Rose's role in Hank Williams' songwriting, and in January 2009, American Songwriter columnist Michael Kosser discussed the issue, quoting at length from an interview he had conducted with Don Helms, who died in August 2008.

“[Williams would] just come up with something and sometimes he wouldn’t say anything to anybody, he’d just attempt to write it. And sometimes he’d succeed in writin’ it but he’d usually at some time or another approach Fred Rose and let Fred look it over, and whatever advice Fred would give him, he might take or might not, but eventually they would smooth it out. Fred’d say, ‘Hank, this thing is gonna sing better if you’ll say so-and-so’ and Hank might say, ‘Oh no, I don’t know about that.’ And then later Hank would try it and it’d work good."

That's likely how the writing of "I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive" played out. The song has Williams' folksy stamp all over it, but there's a clean construction that implies the Tin Pan Alley touch of Rose. In a similar way, Williams' last songs, preserved in notebooks he left behind after his death, were brought to fruition by a handful of admirers like Bob Dylan, Norah Jones, and his granddaughter Holly Williams, in the recent album, The Lost Notebooks of Hank Williams.

Holly Williams, who worked on “Blue Is My Heart” for the album, recently described the process of working on her legendary grandfather's song to American Songwriter: “Pretty much all I had in my hands was eight lines, no music or any other lyrics – just a little thought, if you will. It’s very intimidating finishing a lyric of Hank’s. He had such a simple, cut-to-your-heart style, with no extra words. He wrote the first two verses and I wrote the last two. My hope is that you won’t be able to tell the difference between Hank’s lyrics and mine.”

Steve Earle, who titled his 2011 album and book after "I'll Get Out Of This World Alive," told American Songwriter in a July/August 2011 cover story that Williams' song resonated with him on the subject of mortality. Earle said his album and book are a reflection on both his father's recent death and his own near-death experience with drug addiction in the 1990s. (Earle also recorded a Hank-faithful version of the song, though it does not appear on the album.)

Though often considered a premonition of Williams' own death, most serious critics have dismissed this view. The song is, more simply, about having bad luck. Escott goes so far as to say it's just "a novelty song tricked out from a W.C. Fields catchphrase." While likely not a sincere meditation on his own mortality, for a lonesome, hard-luck character in Williams' state, it's hard not to imagine the words of "I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive" sinking in on some deeper level.

(Perhaps Williams' real premonition of death comes in the last lines he would sing at Castle Studios: "Take these chains from my heart and set me free," though Williams did not have a hand in writing this Fred Rose/Hy Heath composition.)

Whether either Williams or Rose saw a larger meaning in "I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive," we, of course, will never quite know. Both songwriters, though, would not survive the song's creation by much. (Rose died in December 1954, just two years after its release.)

"I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive"

Now you're lookin' at a man that's gettin' kinda mad
I had lots of luck but it's all been bad
No matter how I struggle and strive
I'll never get out of this world alive.

My fishin' pole's broke the creek is full of sand
My woman run away with another man
No matter how I struggle and strive
I'll never get out of this world alive.

A distant uncle passed away and left me quite a batch
And I was livin' high until that fatal day
A lawyer proved I wasn't born
I was only hatched.

Everything's agin' me and it's got me down
If I jumped in the river I would probably drown
No matter how I struggle and strive
I'll never get out of this world alive.

These shabby shoes I'm wearin' all the time
Are full of holes and nails
And brother if I stepped on a worn out dime
I bet a nickel I could tell you if it was heads or tails.

I'm not gonna worry wrinkles in my brow
'Cause nothin's ever gonna be alright nohow
No matter how I struggle and strive
I'll never get out of this world alive.

I could buy a Sunday suit and it would leave me broke
If it had two pair of pants I would burn the coat
No matter how I struggle and strive
I'll never get out of this world alive.

If it was rainin' gold I wouldn't stand a chance
I wouldn't have a pocket in my patched-up pants
No matter how I struggle and strive
I'll never get out of this world alive.

Written by Hank Williams and Fred Rose

Bill Wyman’s Rhythm Kings, “Motorvatin’ Mama”

Davis Inman — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 15:04:02 +0000

Jeff Beck couldn't believe that "Motorvatin' Mama" wasn't a song from the 1930s. In fact, it was written by The Rolling Stones founding bassist Bill Wyman and recorded for his all-star group The Rhythm Kings' first album, Struttin' Our Stuff, in 1997.

"Jeff Beck said to me, 'Where did you get 'Motorvatin' Mama'? Where'd that come from, who did that originally'?" Wyman recounts by phone from the UK, where he's enjoying a day off from The Rhythm Kings seven-week tour. "I said, 'No, I wrote that.' He said, 'Get out of it, that's a '30 song.'"

"I said, 'I wrote it, it just sounds like one because we made it sound like that and I'm using lyrics that are familiar to that time.' And then he said to me, 'Who plays bass on it?' And I said, 'I do.' And he said, 'No you didn't. That's a double bass on there and you don't play double bass. Your hands are too small.' That's me playing bass but I'm trying to make it sound like a double bass, because that's what was being used at the time."

Wyman, who left the Stones in 1992, has since put his focus into The Rhythm Kings, as well as other interests like writing, photography, archeology, and running his Sticky Fingers restaurant.

He says the idea for the Rhythm Kings grew out of the eclectic spirit of his 1985 Willie And The Poor Boys project, which featured some of the same members (Andy Fairweather Low, Geraint Watkins) that would work with The Rhythm Kings. The Rhythm Kings explore a wide range of styles, from rock and roll to jazz, blues, gospel, soul, and rockabilly. "It's a variety of music, not the same old numbers," Wyman says. (A new five-CD box set on Proper Records shows the group's breadth on three studio albums and a double-disc live outing.)

While never a major songwriting force in the Stones, Wyman wrote songs for solo albums like Monkey Grip, Stone Alone, and Bill Wyman (which yielded the hit "(Si, Si) Je Suis un Rock Star"). But, now, when he works out a song for The Rhythm Kings, Wyman says he tries to write "in the style of the time." He compares it to archeology: "You're finding little treasures and bring them to life."

"I just tried to capture the atmosphere of the time of what I was thinking that song suited, whether it was the late '30s, or whether it was jump music, around the time of Fats Waller. [I'm] trying to use the local slang, to use the kind of melodies they would sing backing vocals to, and different kind of horn arrangements."

"Motorvatin' Mama" is a clear homage to '30s hokum blues double entendre, recalling that genre's heyday and risque tunes like Tampa Red's "Let Me Play With Your Poodle," Bo Carter's "Please Warm My Weiner," or Memphis Minnie's "Bumble Bee."

But with its automobile sexual innuendoes, "Motorvatin' Mama"'s closest influence might be Robert Johnson's "Terraplane Blues," named for the car made by Detroit's Hudson Motor Company, which was popular when Johnson recorded in 1936.

Like Johnson's automobile analogy, Wyman goes through a laundry list of car parts that need repair: starter, plugs, steering, radiator, carburetor. In both songs, the protagonist has been away from home and wonders "who's been in my garage" (or in Johnson's case, "Who been drivin' my Terraplane for you since I been gone?").

Wyman clearly enjoys the opportunity to play classic songs alongside newer tunes written in the style of the musical eras he loves. "We've got no pressure to make hit records or massive-selling albums, or record companies kicking us up the backside. We don't have any of that so it's just a pleasure to do it. You do it for the love."

Stay tuned for our full interview with Bill Wyman, in which he discusses the difference between working with The Rhythm Kings and the Stones, getting George Harrison to play slide guitar on a song not long before he died, and his misunderstood blues book.

"Motorvatin' Mama"

I've been out of action far too long
Who's been in my garage since I've been gone
Motorvatin' mama, driving hard
If I don't fix you, baby, you're heading for the breaker's yard

Looking at your starter gotta change those wires
Searching your connection, your plugs don't fire
Motorvatin' mama (motorvatin' mama), driving hard (drivin' hard)
If I don't get you runnin', you're heading for the breaker's yard

Straighten out the steering so your wheels don't drift
Checkin' your suspension, gettin' for a lift
Motorvatin' mama (motorvatin' mama), driving hard (drivin' hard)
If I don't fix you, baby, you're heading for the breaker's yard

Gotta rev your engine, change those oils
Plug your radiator 'fore your engine boils
Motorvatin' mama (motorvatin' mama), driving hard (drivin' hard)
If I don't get you runnin', you're heading for the breaker's yard

You're rustin' up, much too slow,
Gotta check the body work down below
Motorvatin' mama (motorvatin' mama), driving hard (drivin' hard)
If I don't fix you, baby, you're heading for the breaker's yard

Turn your carburetor get the timing right
Fix those gears 'cause you're much too tight
Motorvatin' mama (motorvatin' mama), driving hard (drivin' hard)
If I don't get you runnin', you're heading for the breaker's yard

You're a motorvatin' mama (motorvatin' mama), driving hard (drivin' hard)

Written by Bill Wyman and Terry Taylor