“I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair; ’77 and ’69, revolution was in the air”, or so sang erstwhile MySpace ‘phenomenon’ and purveyor of the insipid Sandi Thom. The rest of this forgettable track aside, these lyrics (and Thom can claim none of the creative spark for this sentiment) provide an interesting insight into the prescriptive nature of music history. There seems to be a general consensus, usually by those with a vested interest (Stuart Maconie et al I’m looking at you) that there are certain dates that are intrinsically ‘magical’ when it comes to music production, and thus are etched into our collective musical minds as significant. 1969 is one of these sacrosanct years. Even the most cursory of glances at the music press at the moment will yield myriad articles singing the praises of this year. Yet all will focus on one band, one album and one conclusion: the Beatles, ‘Abbey Road’ and that 1969 was a full stop at the end of a creative surge in popular music.
Ok, let’s get the necessaries out of the way. Yes, the Beatles were (and still are) unparalleled. They are among the most significant products this country has ever produced, and I don’t just mean musically, I mean they’re up there with the Magna Carta and the NHS! Yes, ‘Abbey Road’ is an amazing album and it did serve as the perfect end to the Beatles’ career[1]. But the way 1969 has passed into musical history, you’d be forgiven (well, not by me) for thinking that the whole of the music industry shut down, entering a dark-age of self-indulgent stadium rock until punk came along and breathed, or rather spat, vitality back into British music.
The points I’d like to try and get across in this article are firstly, that 1969 doesn’t simply represent the ‘end of an era’ and that a lot of exciting musical ventures took root in that year. Secondly, I want to try and dispel somewhat this prescriptive vision of ‘great years’ or even ‘great period’ of music in history. The sanctifying of an imagined past (almost always viewed in comparison to an un-favoured present and negatively projected future) is an overly simplistic and detrimental way of viewing music.
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Ever since writing that Jason Mraz article last week, I have been left with a rather bitter taste in my ears (mixed metaphor enough?). I have found myself wandering aimlessly around the house whistling ‘I’m Yours’ inanely. I need an antidote. I need to write about the most meaningful piece of music I have ever heard. I need to write about Planxty by Planxty.
For those of you taken aback by the slightly baffling phrase ‘Planxty by Planxty’, let me clarify. Planxty is the name of the debut album by 70’s Irish folk band Planxty. For those of you have heard this truly seminal work, gaze into the middle distance for a moment and remember it. For those of you who have a spare few minutes at work you wouldn’t mind killing, allow me to indulge in some personal history. I first heard this album as three fairly important rites of passage for a young man converged at a single junction. Firstly, I had just had my first (and only) real heartbreak. And that is still all I can write about that. Secondly, I had just moved away from home to go to University and thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I had just inherited my dad’s record collection[1]. At the exact moment I heard this album, the first of these three concerns was weighing heavily on my mind, and the second was proving to be quite the disillusion. I had hoped university would be a hot bed of creativity where people would loose themselves in heated discussions over music. In reality, it seemed to be a rather dank place where people tended to loose themselves in a drink addled world of vomit and overdrafts[2].
This situation had left me pondering the ‘big questions’ as it were and it was in this existential quest for meaning that I was looking through my newly acquired record collection. My dad isn’t massively in to music, but had had a penchant for prog. and folk that was seriously beginning to permeate into my own musical palette. I picked out a curious looking record that gave very little of itself away. An almost completely black sleeve. A solitary spotlight barely illuminated four bodies engaged in playing indeterminate instruments. In the top right hand corner reads the word ‘Planxty.’ It was a record that demanded to be picked up and played. I played side one. A crackle. Then in burst ‘Raggle Taggle Gypsy’. It honestly hit me like a burst of lightening. It is an intricate and meticulously crafted song, which tells of a gentrified lady being coerced (with more than a hint of ‘old country’ magic) into leaving her worldly goods to “lie in the wide open fields, in the arms of her raggle, taggle gypsy”. The song is mysterious, dark. Sonically, it paints the picture of a dark, rain and wind swept night. Lyrically, it imbeds the narrative around your psyche with a subtle blend of repetition and intriguing rhythm, rhyme and turn-of-phrase until you could have sworn it had happened to you. You were that gypsy. Or lady. Or jilted lover, depending on which side of the psychological fence you fall. At its climax the song then segues effortlessly into a traditional Irish reel that provides a complete u-turn emotionally, shifting to a major key and lilting melody. While the danger would be that this would sound a bit clunky and break the atmosphere so carefully constructed, it actually serves as a really welcome breather for the listener. It acts as a stopgap for you to digest what you have just heard, cleanse your musical palate before diving into the next song. Read the rest of this entry »
An astounding 40 years on from its release, this record (for the full duration of its 8 minutes) taken from a recording of the Montreux Jazz festival in ‘67, sounds as fresh, and straight fucking funky, as ever.
You can feel it from the first note as the jazz piano intro hits, those keys so distinctly supplied by Mccann as he interpolates (although the word ‘interjaculates’ seems more appropriate) the melody from ‘Age of Aquiarius’ (from the musical Hair) and more than pulls it off. The rimshots and the hi-hat courtesy of Donald Dean (the unsung hero of the tune) build it, Harris’ tenor sax drops over the trap kit and piano; then it just breaks the fuck out. The sporadic cheers and cries of the crowd adding to the increasingly zealous atmosphere generated by the players.
Its strength is in its soulfulness, if not raw funk, proving that jazz-soul coming rough and ready (undoubtedly enhanced by the live recording) can achieve something that its smoothed out descendants never could. Hell, half the time ‘Compared to What’ sounds as if on the verge of a breakdown into full blown New Orleans funk, but perhaps the biggest surprise is Mccann’s voice, and the fact the rest of the record is instrumental serving as a reminder this was still a rarity at the time; its raw sincerity, emotive not technical, adding to the aura. The sax lines and sharp interjections from Benny Bailey on trumpet take you in different directions, but this is Mccann’s moment.
With all this R&B soulfulness irresistibly invoking your compulsions to feel it (as opposed to just hearing it), you almost forget that this is a protest song, but the lyrics add that extra dimension that makes this a classic. The repeated relativistic cry of “Tryin’ to make it real – compared to what?” that ends every verse (complete with break) sounds almost existential, while the first verse is almost a summation of the debate on the modern world and its apparent disenfranchisement of human satisfaction that continues today; “Love the lie and lie the love/ Hangin’ on, with a push and shove / Possession is the motivation/ that is hangin’ up the God-damn nation/ Looks like we always end up in a rut (everybody now!)/ Tryin’ to make it real — compared to what?”
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