There are some cover versions that just indisputably blast the original into oblivion. When Otis Redding heard Aretha Franklin singing Respect, he famously said: “I just lost my song. That girl took it away from me.” I’d like to look at another recording that renders its original, in my view, utterly obsolete. The song is My Baby Just Cares For Me by Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson. The recording artist is Nina Simone.
Nina Simone was, by Otis’s criteria, one of the most light-fingered figures in popular music. Again and again she makes the songs she essays totally her own. Heard the original of Feeling Good? No? Don’t bother. From her gut-wrenching take on My Man’s Gone Now from Porgy and Bess to her versions of Bob Dylan songs (Just Like A Woman, I Shall Be Released) Nina proves you don’t have to be a songwriter (though she was that too) to bring your own creative stamp to a record.
Not convinced? Here’s the (more or less) original version of My Baby Just Cares For Me, by Eddie Cantor. Yep, he’s in blackface.
Nina recorded her version for her debut album in 1957 – at the end of the session, almost as a throwaway. But perfection has a funny way of creeping up on you unawares, and the result was 3 minutes and 37 seconds of the most immaculate pop music I’ve ever heard. Out goes the rhythm of the original, out goes the melody. In comes a cool swing shuffle and a serenely descending left-hand line that anchors Simone’s version. Her vocal is understated and warm, altering the lyrics to fit the gender reversal. Then comes a brilliant, equally understated piano solo, the work of a Juilliard graduate equally comfortable with Baroque fugues and jazz (that this was before Jacques Loussier or Ward Swingle had made the two seem like natural bedfellows). Then the head returns, and Nina plays around with the melody and lyrics some more (including a mischievous reference to Liberace), building in intensity until the simple piano figure that rounds it all off.
In the Eighties, after laying dormant for a while, the song was used in a Chanel ad, sparking off a revival of interest in Nina (which has grown and grown, perpetuated by those Ain’t Got No – I Got Life Müller ads, and now “Very Best Of Nina Simone” compilations are among the best-selling jazz albums in the UK). The song was re-released as a single in 1987, and Aardman Animations made a video for it – which was the form in which I first encountered the song. Here it is.
It’s a lovely little video, paying close attention to both music and lyrics. The singer’s goofy, bow-tied fella captures what my friend Hugh recently observed: your baby sounds like a really boring bloke. No interests at all? Must be a clingy nightmare. I love the way he walks downstairs at 0:41-0:50, highlighting the distinctive bassline. In other ways it’s misleading – it was years before I realised Nina played piano. But in fact I think my sense of what jazz singing was or should be, and what a jazz club looked like or should look like, were heavily influenced by this song and this video.
I think I realised how important this song was to me in the summer of 2006 when I was travelling solo in Europe. Berlin was the first stop on the trip, and I spent most of my time there wandering around entranced by the city in summer with all its pavement cafés and mocked-up beach bars. On the first or maybe the second evening, I came across a boat moored in the river near the Museumsinsel, an open-air theatre that doubled as a bar, on which you could sit in a deck chair and drink a beer while a DJ played summery tunes. Which I duly did, feeling very self-conscious, just starting to come to grips with the unfamiliarity, the daunting grown-up freedom of it all (I’d only been legally allowed to drink in the UK for two weeks by this point). It was at once terrifying and exhilarating. I drank my beer quickly and crossed back over the river. But as I was on the bridge, My Baby Just Cares For Me came on. And I was transfixed.
So often when we listen to music – our iPods in while we commute or do the ironing – it’s discrete and disconnected from the experience we’re having. Where and when we listen to a song, and what we play it on, doesn’t necessarily affect the way we perceive it. But there, and then, the echo of the music as it reverberated across the water, the warmth of the evening sun that matched the warmth of Nina’s voice, the sense of simple joy in the music that matched how I felt, how I wanted to feel… all these came together to make a completely beautiful moment. It was – and as an un-superstitious atheist I use this word carefully – magic.
My relationship with the song didn’t end there, though. A few months later I joined an a cappella group, The Oxford Gargoyles (see link on the right). I was in the group for two thoroughly enjoyable years (and am rejoining them for the Edinburgh Fringe this summer), an experience which really came to define my time at university. And the Gargoyles’ signature song is… My Baby Just Cares For Me. The Gargoyle arrangement is based on Nina’s version. It’s a simple but excellent arrangement, and a showcase for 8 soloists. It’s also useful for busking because it’s got a nice loud beginning. For all these reasons the Gargoyles sing it more than any other song, and I would estimate I have probably sung it with them over a thousand times. Literally. So the song has a whole other layer of associations as a result. It’s so deeply scorched into my consciousness and muscle memory that I could sing it while doing long multiplication or composing a poem. I don’t have anything like perfect pitch, but for a while I could sing a D from a standing start, because that’s the key My Baby is in (Nina’s version is in A).
Here’s the Gargoyles version, as it was two years ago. (I’m 4th from the left).
Let’s be clear – I’m not making any claims for the above as a rival version of the tune. Nina’s is and will always be the greatest. I’m simply fascinated by the path one song can take through more than eighty years of musical history – and the more modest but (to me) no less fascinating path it has taken through my life.
There we go. This blog is certainly turning out to be centred around songs, and my personal responses to them. Which maybe isn’t a matter of general interest. But then again, all writing about music is a personal response of some sort, isn’t it? Stay tuned.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Monday, 8 June 2009
Insert bad yolk here
Dear reader (note the singular),
Well, the exams are over. So that's good. In fact they were over almost two weeks ago. Since then I've not actually been on a non-stop bender (turns out the pressure to have fun after Finals is almost as extreme as the pressure of Finals - almost), but I'll pretend I have by way of an excuse for not writing anything on here in a while.
I'll be back with a proper blog soon. In the meantime, continuing the trend of "ooh, I quite like this song": see if you don't warm to this track (Spotify required)
http://open.spotify.com/track/2LowZvH4PdX4E6wyQu9WBP
It's called But California and it's by Eg White. And it's a lovely little demo-ish slice of regret and opportunities missed and rediscovered.
I'm intrigued by Eg White, not just by his name (which has given rise to plenty of "Albumen of the Year"-type gags) but by his regular occupation. He describes himself as a whore. A songwriting whore, that is. This is the man responsible for Leave Right Now (Will Young), Chasing Pavements (Adele) and You Give Me Something (James Morrison). Although all these artists fall on the wrong side of the cool/taste police, it so happens that they're all cracking songs. Nice job, Eg.
Well, the exams are over. So that's good. In fact they were over almost two weeks ago. Since then I've not actually been on a non-stop bender (turns out the pressure to have fun after Finals is almost as extreme as the pressure of Finals - almost), but I'll pretend I have by way of an excuse for not writing anything on here in a while.
I'll be back with a proper blog soon. In the meantime, continuing the trend of "ooh, I quite like this song": see if you don't warm to this track (Spotify required)
http://open.spotify.com/track/2LowZvH4PdX4E6wyQu9WBP
It's called But California and it's by Eg White. And it's a lovely little demo-ish slice of regret and opportunities missed and rediscovered.
I'm intrigued by Eg White, not just by his name (which has given rise to plenty of "Albumen of the Year"-type gags) but by his regular occupation. He describes himself as a whore. A songwriting whore, that is. This is the man responsible for Leave Right Now (Will Young), Chasing Pavements (Adele) and You Give Me Something (James Morrison). Although all these artists fall on the wrong side of the cool/taste police, it so happens that they're all cracking songs. Nice job, Eg.
Sunday, 10 May 2009
The zeugmatic Michael Flanders
On my travels examward, I recently learned a new word: "zeugma". It's a classical rhetorical device whereby a word (usually a verb) is made to refer to two or more disparate things. Anyway, this welcome addition to my vocabulary reminded me of an old Flanders & Swann song - containing the best uses of zeugma in the English language (he suggests provocatively)?
"He said, as he hastened to put out the cat, the wine, his cigar and the lamps..."
"She lowered her standards by raising her glass, her courage, her eyes and his hopes"
And best of all
"When he asked 'What in heaven?' she made no reply, up her mind and a dash for the door"
I've got a lot of time for Michael Flanders. A great wordsmith with an equally masterful delivery, he was also (I recently learned) an early champion of rights for the disabled, and his was probably the first wheelchair to make an appearance on the West End stage. Had I been 20 in 1967 when the above footage was filmed I would (I hope) have been hanging out with the hippies, and I suspect Flanders & Swann would have seemed a throwback to an outdated tradition of light entertainment - the sort of thing your parents and their friends would like. But from the standpoint of 2009, the two stances fortunately aren't mutually exclusive. (And actually, maybe they weren't then either: the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band were a kind of sillier, more psychedelic Flanders & Swann; Paul McCartney and Ray Davies both had/have music hall in their blood)
This is pretty funny, though:
"He said, as he hastened to put out the cat, the wine, his cigar and the lamps..."
"She lowered her standards by raising her glass, her courage, her eyes and his hopes"
And best of all
"When he asked 'What in heaven?' she made no reply, up her mind and a dash for the door"
I've got a lot of time for Michael Flanders. A great wordsmith with an equally masterful delivery, he was also (I recently learned) an early champion of rights for the disabled, and his was probably the first wheelchair to make an appearance on the West End stage. Had I been 20 in 1967 when the above footage was filmed I would (I hope) have been hanging out with the hippies, and I suspect Flanders & Swann would have seemed a throwback to an outdated tradition of light entertainment - the sort of thing your parents and their friends would like. But from the standpoint of 2009, the two stances fortunately aren't mutually exclusive. (And actually, maybe they weren't then either: the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band were a kind of sillier, more psychedelic Flanders & Swann; Paul McCartney and Ray Davies both had/have music hall in their blood)
This is pretty funny, though:
A sideburn aside
Dear hypothetical blog-readers,
I do apologise for the long expanse of dead air since my first tentative postings. The fast-approaching exams, it would seem, have robbed me of (a) spare time and (b) any interesting thoughts with which to fill it. It’s a measure of my sorry existence that the most exciting thing that’s happened to me recently is that I have grown some rather puny sideburns.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be so modest. These babies are my first vaguely successful foray into the manly territory of facial hair growth and I’m pleased with the results. I sang at a black tie event last night and they really set off the whole look quite nicely. And the process has also let me in on some insights about the whole thorny issue of facial hair.
Firstly, I’ve discovered that there is a huge disparity between facial hair as viewed by the wearer and the observer. The process of growing and lovingly sculpting these things has been a huge emotional investment for me. You noticed the use of the word “babies” in the last paragraph? It wasn’t casual. As a man this is as close as I will get to childbirth. Two hairy little runts of twins whom I love, disproportionately to any real merit or beauty they may possess, but simply because I brought them into the world. And there’s no bond stronger than that.
It’s been a painful process: not just because shaving around them blunts my razor blades even quicker than usual and I am even more of a bloody mess after shaving, but also because the precarious task of evening them up has made me painfully aware of how asymmetrical my face is. What do I use as a guideline? My slightly lopsided ears? It’s a nightmare.
But of course, no-one who sees these paltry pillars of fuzz could suspect that they have been the focus of so much angst. To an outsider they are just sideburns, the most routine and unremarkable of all facial growths. Richard Herring, who has shaved himself a Hitlerian toothbrush moustache for his new stand-up show, recounts in his blog the emotionally turbulent experience of walking around London sporting the most inflammatory facial hairstyle of the 20th century. He found, however, that people (especially Londoners) don’t really care. To him it’s a Hitler moustache, an embarrassingly sixth-form pseudo-“statement”; to the general public it might equally well be a Chaplin or Ron Mael. And if Herring’s Hitler can’t raise more than a shrug, what chance do I have of setting the world alight?
And indeed, since growing my sideburns precisely TWO people have commented on them: my ex-girlfriend, and one of my oldest and closest friends (who is also, coincidentally, this blog’s only known reader. Hi Richard.) Both, in their way, experts on my face. Anyone ranking below an expert is unlikely to notice; or if they notice, to care; or if they care, to comment. It didn’t help that I had my first haircut in months around the time I started growing them, so the haircut has tended to act as a smokescreen, and people comment on that instead, either taking the facial hair as part of the overall package or perhaps assuming that some of the hairdresser’s trimmings simply got stuck to the side of my face.
I’d like to close with a rather out-of-date observation on that Joaquin Phoenix appearance on David Letterman that set the internet abuzz back in February. Surely the most implausible aspect of the whole business is the fact that when Letterman compliments him on his enormous beard (in the first 45 seconds or so), he seems totally nonchalant about it.
You’re fooling no-one, Joaquin, least of all me. I know there’s an ecstatic, breathless voice in your head crying: “YESSS! He noticed!”
I do apologise for the long expanse of dead air since my first tentative postings. The fast-approaching exams, it would seem, have robbed me of (a) spare time and (b) any interesting thoughts with which to fill it. It’s a measure of my sorry existence that the most exciting thing that’s happened to me recently is that I have grown some rather puny sideburns.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be so modest. These babies are my first vaguely successful foray into the manly territory of facial hair growth and I’m pleased with the results. I sang at a black tie event last night and they really set off the whole look quite nicely. And the process has also let me in on some insights about the whole thorny issue of facial hair.
Firstly, I’ve discovered that there is a huge disparity between facial hair as viewed by the wearer and the observer. The process of growing and lovingly sculpting these things has been a huge emotional investment for me. You noticed the use of the word “babies” in the last paragraph? It wasn’t casual. As a man this is as close as I will get to childbirth. Two hairy little runts of twins whom I love, disproportionately to any real merit or beauty they may possess, but simply because I brought them into the world. And there’s no bond stronger than that.
It’s been a painful process: not just because shaving around them blunts my razor blades even quicker than usual and I am even more of a bloody mess after shaving, but also because the precarious task of evening them up has made me painfully aware of how asymmetrical my face is. What do I use as a guideline? My slightly lopsided ears? It’s a nightmare.
But of course, no-one who sees these paltry pillars of fuzz could suspect that they have been the focus of so much angst. To an outsider they are just sideburns, the most routine and unremarkable of all facial growths. Richard Herring, who has shaved himself a Hitlerian toothbrush moustache for his new stand-up show, recounts in his blog the emotionally turbulent experience of walking around London sporting the most inflammatory facial hairstyle of the 20th century. He found, however, that people (especially Londoners) don’t really care. To him it’s a Hitler moustache, an embarrassingly sixth-form pseudo-“statement”; to the general public it might equally well be a Chaplin or Ron Mael. And if Herring’s Hitler can’t raise more than a shrug, what chance do I have of setting the world alight?
And indeed, since growing my sideburns precisely TWO people have commented on them: my ex-girlfriend, and one of my oldest and closest friends (who is also, coincidentally, this blog’s only known reader. Hi Richard.) Both, in their way, experts on my face. Anyone ranking below an expert is unlikely to notice; or if they notice, to care; or if they care, to comment. It didn’t help that I had my first haircut in months around the time I started growing them, so the haircut has tended to act as a smokescreen, and people comment on that instead, either taking the facial hair as part of the overall package or perhaps assuming that some of the hairdresser’s trimmings simply got stuck to the side of my face.
I’d like to close with a rather out-of-date observation on that Joaquin Phoenix appearance on David Letterman that set the internet abuzz back in February. Surely the most implausible aspect of the whole business is the fact that when Letterman compliments him on his enormous beard (in the first 45 seconds or so), he seems totally nonchalant about it.
You’re fooling no-one, Joaquin, least of all me. I know there’s an ecstatic, breathless voice in your head crying: “YESSS! He noticed!”
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
The soundtrack to our lives
Funny, isn't it - the arbitrary way in which certain songs lodge themselves deeply in the consciousness while others of no less quality prompt an apathetic shrug. Having thoroughly psychoanalysed myself, I'm convinced that one of the main reasons I so adore The Divine Comedy's song "Our Mutual Friend" is that it reminds me of a much-loved childhood audiobook of Roald Dahl's The Minpins (deliciously narrated by Joss Ackland).
There are, of course, other factors. The song tells a story to which we can, surely, all relate: boy meets girl, boy and girl get along like house on fire, get drunk, dance, kiss, pass out. Boy wakes up; girl is in the arms of boy's friend. But the brilliance of the song, as suggested in the line "it's like the soundtrack to our lives", is the way in which this humble little narrative is blown up onto a cinematic scale, complete with bombastic orchestral arrangement. There's something wonderfully, naively romantic about the effect these events have had on the narrator: "No matter how I try / I just can't get her out of my mind / And when I sleep / I visualise her".
And yet the strength of emotion, however apparently disproportionate, achieves its own validity. It helps that there is always a knowing twinkle in Hannon's writing and vocal delivery, a hint of self-parody (which, by the way, is notably missing from Daisy Chapman's beautiful cover - see below). Behind the lushness and pomp are occasional reminders of the everyday nature of the source material: the reference to Tom Jones, the word "settee". I love the way the phrase "above the beat" cues the tympani and sleigh-bells - suddenly a sweaty nightclub becomes an enchanted ballroom.
It probably helps that I first fell in love with this song as a melodramatic adolescent. But I still have no trouble really, really caring about the outcome of this mini-tragedy. I hold my breath when the narrator tries to hide his excitement with a casual "Cool - the feeling's mutual"; my heart leaps when Hannon rapturously sings "and then we kissed..."; I share in his indignation as he spits out "WRAPPED around another lover". The lyric ends with a neatly dovetailed twist, as the mutual friend of the title is reintroduced, bringing all the satisfaction of a great short story. But it's also a great piece of music - and no matter how I try, I just can't get it out of my mind.
(NB the album version is far superior)
There are, of course, other factors. The song tells a story to which we can, surely, all relate: boy meets girl, boy and girl get along like house on fire, get drunk, dance, kiss, pass out. Boy wakes up; girl is in the arms of boy's friend. But the brilliance of the song, as suggested in the line "it's like the soundtrack to our lives", is the way in which this humble little narrative is blown up onto a cinematic scale, complete with bombastic orchestral arrangement. There's something wonderfully, naively romantic about the effect these events have had on the narrator: "No matter how I try / I just can't get her out of my mind / And when I sleep / I visualise her".
And yet the strength of emotion, however apparently disproportionate, achieves its own validity. It helps that there is always a knowing twinkle in Hannon's writing and vocal delivery, a hint of self-parody (which, by the way, is notably missing from Daisy Chapman's beautiful cover - see below). Behind the lushness and pomp are occasional reminders of the everyday nature of the source material: the reference to Tom Jones, the word "settee". I love the way the phrase "above the beat" cues the tympani and sleigh-bells - suddenly a sweaty nightclub becomes an enchanted ballroom.
It probably helps that I first fell in love with this song as a melodramatic adolescent. But I still have no trouble really, really caring about the outcome of this mini-tragedy. I hold my breath when the narrator tries to hide his excitement with a casual "Cool - the feeling's mutual"; my heart leaps when Hannon rapturously sings "and then we kissed..."; I share in his indignation as he spits out "WRAPPED around another lover". The lyric ends with a neatly dovetailed twist, as the mutual friend of the title is reintroduced, bringing all the satisfaction of a great short story. But it's also a great piece of music - and no matter how I try, I just can't get it out of my mind.
(NB the album version is far superior)
Aha! The solution to the worldwide blog shortage!
OK, so the internet isn't exactly gasping for another blog. Who in their right mind would care about my views on anything, except possibly my friends, who could just ask me in person?
Well, quite. So by way of excuse: firstly, I do have an awful lot of twaddle in my head, and it has to go somewhere; secondly, and boringly, I do quite want to eventually make a career out of writing twaddle, and it's probably as well to get some practice in.
So this is primarily a cyber-void for me to scream into - but never fear, I'll keep it on matters I think might be of (some) general interest, rather than the cringe-inducingly personal. Contents may vary.
Well, quite. So by way of excuse: firstly, I do have an awful lot of twaddle in my head, and it has to go somewhere; secondly, and boringly, I do quite want to eventually make a career out of writing twaddle, and it's probably as well to get some practice in.
So this is primarily a cyber-void for me to scream into - but never fear, I'll keep it on matters I think might be of (some) general interest, rather than the cringe-inducingly personal. Contents may vary.
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