In 2008 this South Carolina band’s Freedom Wind so thoroughly evoked the Beach Boys golden age, that you’d wonder if their East Coast beach town of Charleston had somehow connected via a time and space portal to Los Angeles in 1965. More than just recreating the harmonies, instrumentation and arrangements, the band evoked Brian Wilson’s ethos in music, words and emotional tone. It remains a jaw-dropping achievement from start to finish. Four years later, in February of 2012, the band will return with their second album, expanding their exploration of 1960s sounds to the broad sweep of mid-decade AM radio hits, encompassing everything from the sophisticated writing of Burt Bacharach to the Latin-tinged schmaltz of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.
In anticipation of the forthcoming album, which will be mixed by Beach Boys associate Mark Linett, the band is releasing a trio of free EPs, each featuring a non-LP cover song and two pre-Linett mixes of album tracks. The Californian Suite, released last month, opened with a superb cover of Burt Bacharach’s “Walk on By,†and this month’s entry, The Carolinian Suite, offers up the Club’s take on the Classics IV’s “Stormy.†The band relaxes the song’s tempo a notch, giving the arrangement a terrific, loungey air; Jason Brewer’s voice isn’t as husky as Dennis Yost’s, but his gentle blue-eyed soul, the harmony vocals and the jazzy guitar at song’s end are terrific. The EP’s original tunes include a ballad (“Sweet Delightsâ€) that sounds like mid-60s Brian Wilson crooning from the Great American Songbook, and the Burt Bacharach-styled “It’s No Use,†featuring an emotional vocal coda that’s equal parts Little Anthony and Dionne Warwick.
In 2008 this South Carolina band’s Freedom Wind so thoroughly evoked the Beach Boys golden age, that you’d wonder if their East Coast beach town of Charleston had somehow connected via a time and space portal to Los Angeles in 1965. More than just recreating the harmonies, instrumentation and arrangements, the band evoked Brian Wilson’s ethos in music, words and emotional tone. It remains a jaw-dropping achievement from start to finish. Four years later, in February of 2012, the band will return with their second album, expanding their exploration of 1960s sounds to the broad sweep of mid-decade AM radio hits, encompassing everything from the sophisticated writing of Burt Bacharach to the Latin-tinged schmaltz of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.
The 1990s edition of the Mickey Mouse Club was a surprising hotbed of soon-to-be-successful young artists. In addition to better-known alumni Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera, the Club was home to a dozen more actors and singers whose stars may not have risen to international fame, but whose work is worth looking up. Among those making a living with their music is Los Angeles-based singer-songwriter Tony Lucca. No longer the boy singer (that’s him in the middle, next to girlfriend Keri Russell), or the hunky actor of Aaron Spelling’s Malibu Shores, Lucca’s matured into a bearded and bespectacled singer-songwriter with a dozen EPs and albums to his credit.
His first few efforts were self-released and promoted via the Internet, but a couple years after opening for ‘N Sync (home of fellow Mousketeers Justin Timberlake and JC Chasez) in 2001 and 2002, he landed a deal with Lightyear and released the Chasez exec-produced Shotgun. Lucca showed off a deft ear for pop melody and harmony, and though the arrangements and vocal tone occasionally stray toward the middle of the Adult Alternative road, the overall effect was favorably remindful of the early releases of power-popsters like Richard X. Heyman. Lucca’s efforts continued with Rock Ridge on Canyon Songs and Rendezvous with the Angels, and now with this latest all-covers album.
Cover songs are a tricky proposition. If you radically reinvent song, you need to find an interpretation that speaks to listeners in equal measure to the original. If you tread the outlines of the source, you need to do more than spark the listener’s urge to seek out the original artifact. Lucca’s chosen the latter route, threading together interpretations of baby boomer classics that are close enough to be comfortable, but sufficiently personal to rise above karaoke. Better yet, by recording a full album of covers, Lucca tells listeners a bit about himself and the influences that go into his own songs.
The album’s selections are generally well-known and often well-covered by other artists, from the piano-based dirge of Stephen Stills’ “Find the Cost of Freedom†that opens the album through the soulful a cappella reading of Chris Whitley’s “Dirt Floor.†In between Lucca adds just enough originality to Steely Dan’s “Dirty Work,†Tom Petty’s “You Got Lucky†and the Rolling Stones’ “Waiting on a Friend†to freshen them up without taking untoward liberties. It’s a delicate balance – changing the tempos slightly or adding a soulful edge to the vocal – but one for which Lucca has a tremendous feel.
The twenty tracks collected here pull together the original line-ups of 1962’s Sinatra-Basie: An Historical Musical First and 1964’s It Might as Well Be Swing. Both albums found Sinatra in superb voice, complete command of his material and leading Basie’s band from the singer’s seat. Unlike his early days as a big band boy singer, Sinatra doesn’t have to dodge and weave around the instrumentalists; Neil Hefti and Quincy Jones penned the arrangements in consultation with the vocalist, and the band hangs on his every word. Basie may have been the band leader, but once Sinatra opened his mouth, the instrumentalists took their cues from the Chairman.
By the early ‘60s, Sinatra was in the third phrase of his career – having transformed from big band singer to crooner to ring-a-ding-ding label owner. In his late ‘40s, the feeling of freedom in his singing was never stronger. He dances through the lyrics as if he was singing extemporaneously, expressing himself rather than the thoughts of a songwriter, and the arrangements push him to great heights. Basie’s band (and for the second album, orchestra) swung hard, ranging from jazzy piano, bass and percussion interludes to full-out horn charts. The sections play with a coherence that’s sublime, and the soloists are given space to weave their own magic, including especially fine moments from flautist Frank Wess.
Sinatra’s records at Capitol may have represented his greatest sustained period of artistic achievement, but his years on Reprise often consolidated and exploited what he’d learned. His sessions with Basie, particularly the first, were a master class in tone and phrasing. Basie’s greatest artistic growth had similarly occurred in earlier decades, but he retained nealy unparalleled talent for accompanying a singer – supporting the vocals as the primary mission, but finding room for the band to be heard. Hefti and Riddle’s contributions can’t be overstated, picking songs and writing charts that allowed Sinatra and Basie to infuse new life into these iconic selections. Sinatra deftly punches, pauses and slides through the lyrics of “(Love is) The Tender Trap,†and with a transformation from Bossa Nova to 4/4, “Fly Me to the Moon†was established as a Sinatra standard.
An American songwriting legend revisits her career highlights
It’s been more than a decade since listeners heard new recordings from Jackie DeShannon, and rather than writing new material, she’s chosen to reconsider the classics in her catalog. The good news is that the songs are terrific, DeShannon’s voice has aged well, and she finds compelling, new interpretations for the well-worn chestnuts. The less good news is that a few of the arrangements are undercooked, the tempos start to drag by album’s end, and the mixes don’t always lay the vocals fully into the instrumentation. It’s great to hear DeShannon singing, and to have these songs rethought by their author (alongside the new composition “Will You Stay in My Lifeâ€), but one might wish her co-producer pushed for a greater variety of approaches.
The album’s title track is its best, maturing the adolescent anticipation of DeShannon’s original into mature knowingness. Her earlier notes of youthful anxiety are transformed into hints of surprise as she lingers over the words and realizes the on-going strength of her desire. The stripping of ‘60s filigree from Marianne Faithful and Cher’s versions of “Come and Stay With Me†[12] turns the song from ‘60s pop into something fit for Linda Ronstadt’s early days, and that same Canyon vibe lives on in “Don’t Doubt Yourself Babe.†The latter smooths the Byrds’ jangly folk-rock (and DeShannon’s own folk demo) into engaging adult pop. Among the most startling transformations is DeShannon’s turn of the hyperkinetic “Breakaway†[123] into a definitive and dark ballad, and a bluesy take on “Bad Water†that strips away the Raelettes’ ‘70s-style soul.
George Strait’s numbers are eye-popping: 30 years, 24 chart-topping albums, 57 chart-topping singles, 69 million records sold. 84 of his 89 radio singles have cracked the Top 10 – second only to Eddy Arnold (who notched 92!). It’s a streak worthy of Lou Gehrig and Cal Ripkin Jr. One could wonder whether his fame has simply become self-sustaining, but the music industry is littered with acts who maintained their success for a few years or a decade, but few have sustained Strait’s level of commercial success for thirty years. During those three decades, the artistic reach of Strait’s albums has waxed and waned, but he’s never seemed less than sincere or involved by the songs, and he’s never strayed far from his country roots.
Superbly talented guitarist picks holiday chestnuts
