The Professor descends through a hole in the pavement and explores the underground, where he discovers new works by Sons of the East, Charles Pasi, Jon Batiste, Ledfoot und Wet Leg.
Outside, the rain pounds against the windows. The storm rages through the treetops of the two big oaks out back. Periodically, the sharp crack of an acorn hitting the shed roof cuts through the splashing and drumming. I’ve lit a fire in the fireplace. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, especially if he’s prone to getting cold feet. I guess we’ll have to accept the fact that summer’s over. “What the hell are you even on about!?”, I hear spring shout through the tilted window, “summer’s waiting right around the corner!” Indeed, the weather outside seems to be playing pranks on the Professor’s perception of time. So I choose to just ignore it and focus on what really matters instead, as the world outside is being rocked by many a calamity beyond our control. And music is what really matters. But you don’t need me to tell you this, valued friends, I know, I know. Music on physical media, or on a hard drive if need be, and of course, music on a stage. Few things make my spirit soar like a good concert does – this, too, is nothing new to the circle of readers of Professor P.’s Rhythm and Soul Revue. In fact, it’s only a few days ago that I climbed down a hole in the ground. At times, mighty slabs in the trottoir lift in the middle of the northern hemisphere’s biggest red-light district, granting passage to the underworld. You descend as the black walls swallow all but the faintest trace of light. Way down, the layout of the establishment is confusingly Kafkaesque – I’ve been here more than once already, and yet I often accidentally set foot in the sprawling urinal plains when all I wanted was a drink. We came a bit late, the missus and I, an Indian restaurant nearby had forced beads of sweat onto our brows with a bird vindaloo. The opening band was already playing, and the place was packed. The Professor doesn’t care for that anymore. Strangers’ elbows in my sides, video phones in my face and too much cheerful chatter in my ear – no, sir, I’d rather stay home. If only I had known … I really didn’t expect the band Sons of the East to draw such a crowd into this not-so-small club. A mere two years ago I discussed the album Palomar Parade on these pages: The wonderful debut by a trio from a beach suburb of Sydney that played some surprisingly mature folk and alternative country music resembling Dylan and Crosby, Stills & Nash. Evidently, the power of digital direct marketing is not to be underestimated. Hundreds of millions of streams and Youtube clicks may mean grief for the band’s bank counselor, but in a postmodern music era it also means major name recognition. And the concert, friends … stay tuned.
Sons of the East – Sons
We descended, then, into the Hades of a music era in which algorithms increasingly dictate what’s in vogue. Once a critical point is reached, a kind of perpetual-motion dynamic kicks in, causing more and more people to like what more and more people like. One hundred million streams? I should probably click that as well…
Incidentally, this entrance to the underworld lies just short of the Arctic Circle – but it is by no means “underground” in the subcultural sense. Rather, it’s home to an established venue that just so happens to sit below ground level. Anyone who plays here has already taken a few steps toward nirvana. And now this trio from a beach suburb of Sydney. Only two years ago, Sons of the East released their debut album Palomar Parade. At the time, the Professor sang its praises enthusiastically, gratuitously spreading honey and Marmite all over his lines. Now comes the follow-up, Sons, once again with a gentle mix of ’60s folk and mainstream Americana – or rather, Australiana – once again on their own label. Good songs, beautiful voices, remarkably serene music.
But that these guys – who, for live shows, augment their guitars, banjo, mandolin, and guttural organ with a bassist and drummer – would play a sold-out tour… that the Professor and the missus would be clinging to their beers in the very last row, catching glimpses of the stage between the backs of countless heads… well, that wasn’t the plan. Still, even a creature of habit, blocked by rigidity and stubbornness, occasionally experiences enlightenment. It was a cheerful concert, I’ll admit. But the songs from both albums are even better enjoyed in the studio versions – without raised smartphones and general bustle. Gentle grooves, charming harmonies, acoustic guitar and electric piano accompanied by a campfire-cozy bass – let it be wintery outside if it must.
Label: Sons of the East
Format: LP, CD
Charles Pasi – Adamas
It starts with an intricate percussion groove. With edgy second-line rhythms that could have been born either in the melting pot of New Orleans’ Ninth Ward – where soul, funk, and jazz originated – or in late-’80s Washington, D.C., when bands like Trouble Funk created the wild and now sadly almost forgotten funk offshoot known as go-go. In fact, the complex, swinging intro to the opening track “Nothing To Say” on Charles Pasi’s new album was recorded at Pigalle Studios in Paris – though for the legendary New York label Blue Note. Pasi is, after all, the first French singer to find a home in that jazz mecca, having signed in 2015.
On his third Blue Note album (out of six in total), you can feel what defines the label: not confining artists with tradition or nostalgia (Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk…), but letting them groove on their own terms. And so Pasi adds a funky Hammond organ to the opening track, along with his own harmonica – quite sharply lamenting on this one – and a wonderfully Coltrane-esque saxophone solo. The end result is neither jazz nor soul, and absolutely not Trouble Funk funk – but a magically vibrating go-go groove á la Francaise.
This compact analysis from your favorite beat connoisseur applies to every track on the album by this Franco-Italian guy who has only just turned 40. The Professor first encountered him nearly ten years ago via a promo CD of Bricks, whose chanson-infused soul and blues power nearly forced me to pull over to avoid an accident. Adamas is no less impressive: grand, powerful songs about grief and the loss of a father, yet never sounding like overexposed self-therapy – rather, like any great soul or blues song: soulful.
Label: Blue Note/Universal
Format: LP, CD, DL 24/44
Jon Batiste – Big Money
Let be begin with a meticulously crafted prologue to an essayistic elaboration on a few fundamentally critical considerations, condensed into a single word: Huh?
The Professor has just pulled Jon Batiste’s new album from its brown shipping box, and there he is – the Grammy and Oscar winner (for the Pixar film Soul) – smiling at me, guitar in hand.
“Why not?” you might ask.
“Because the man is a pianist,” I’d reply.
I don’t mind, mind you. After all, Jon Batiste comes from a colorful Louisiana family, many of whom achieved legendary status in New Orleans – as marching band impresarios, session saxophonists, or, like Harold Battiste (that’s right, spelled with double “t”), as soul and rock’n’roll talent scouts for the equally legendary Specialty Records, helping artists like Sam Cooke and Dr. John make pivotal career moves. Batiste himself expanded his fame during nearly a decade as musical director and sidekick to late-night host Stephen Colbert. He knows just about everyone in show business – which makes this album all the more pleasing.
Authentic-sounding juke-joint blues, pulsating soul, lush ballads, and almost archaic sounding rhythm & blues: the former Juilliard classical student now puts out deeply relaxed grooves with a handful of trusted collaborators, including songwriting godfather Randy Newman. Take a listen: the title track “Big Money” (acoustic ’50s rock ’n’ roll, with Nick Waterhouse guest-starring on his guitar and a harmonica creeping in from behind while Batiste’s vocals are almost reminiscent of Stevie Wonder. The backing vocals come courtesy of the Womack Sisters, three granddaughters of Sam Cooke), “Lonely Avenue” (a Doc Pomus classic featuring the now over-80-year-old Randy Newman („Short People“, „You Can Leave Your Hand On“) on the mic), and “Pinnacle” (tight rhythm & blues with crisp guitar, driving drums, and a cool Western-style guitar mini-solo towards the end).
Label: Verve/Universal Music
Format: LP, CD, DL 24/48
Ledfoot – Plain Simple Honesty
The Prince of Revenants stands at the gates of the stronghold of the Night’s Watch. He gazes up, calm and cold, icy blue eyes intent on bringing eternal winter down upon mankind. Then he reaches into the saddlebag of his undead steed, grabs his banjo, and begins: “Before your eyes, you see a loser…”
Well, if an album can do this: project banjo blues, slide guitar soul, and imagery from the world of A Game of Thrones all at once onto the blank canvas of the Professor’s mind, then it promptly warrants a warm recommendation. Ledfoot – real name Tim Scott McConnell – is an American singer-songwriter, though he has set up his base camp in Norway. There he plays so-called Gothic blues, occasionally winning the Spellemann, Norway’s Grammy equivalent, and even appearing as a villain in the TV series Exit, alongside confused financial experts. His looks, however, are those of Johnny Winter, who, after his passing from our world, has mysteriously returned as a fearsome revenant in the fantasy realm of A Game of Thrones.
Incidentally, he was even quite famous once – albeit in a more behind-the-scenes kind of way. Bruce Springsteen covered his song “High Hopes” some ten years ago and even named a 2014 album after it. But don’t let all that distract you – just have a listen to a fine little blues album. Try “All You Ever Had” (a mix of 12-string acoustic blues, prairie folk, and an arch-ancient baritone) or “Burning Blue” (a swinging thing complete with finger snaps, mournful slide guitar, and an insisting soul voice that seems on the verge of conquering not just the stronghold of the Night’s Watch, but all of Winterfell).
Label: Musikkoperatørene
Format: LP, CD, DL 16/44
Wet Leg – Moisturizer
Jagged chalk cliffs, gently rolling hills of vibrant greens, and in early summer a burst of violet when butterfly bushes and lupines glow like lavender in Provence – yes, the Isle of Wight off England’s southern coast seems a lovely place, rugged and gentle in equal measure. Its inhabitants are said to be a bit eccentric – perhaps no surprise when you live on an island off an island and can hence consider yourself a bit off the shores of the general populace. Visitors from the mainland are reportedly called “wet legs” – even though it’s a mere lime stone’s throw away and was separated by the sea a mere 6000 years ago. Meanwhile, the Professor cannot confirm whether the Isle of Wight’s inhabitants actually take pride in receiving a few fewer raindrops per year.
The anecdote comes from a semi-credible and biased source, namely from an interview with Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers. The two young ladies from the Isle of Wright founded Wet Leg four years ago as a duo, though the band now storms the music world as a quintet. Appearances on BBC’s Later… with Jools Holland, not one, but two appearances at the US station NPR’s Tiny Desk, mind-expanding shows at Glastonbury – and already Grammy winners: they are, as they say, “hot shit.” Such credentials don’t usually impress the Professor – he’s no longer part of the “young & divers” – or rather “young & diverse” target group. And yet: their second album Moisturizer is really, really good. Postmodern indie alternative punk soul. Basslines that rumble steadily throughout. Angular guitar strumming, perfectly placed in the well-arranged soundscapes. Occasional police sirens, like on the opener “CPR.” Catchy melodies like “Liquidize,” reminiscent of late-period R.E.M. And, of course, charmingly drowsy vocals delivering twenty-something lyrics over distorted guitars.
Rugged and gentle – just like their chalk-cliff homeland.
Label: Domino Records
Format: LP, CD, DL 24/96