Uilab - Fires EP

Here's another one of Stereolab's many collaborations during their long band history, this time with New York City-based post-rock instrumental group Ui.   UI, founded in 1990, was known for its frequent use of two bass guitars in their sample-heavy, electronica/dub music, along with other uncommon instruments such as the banjo, tuba and timpani.  These guys (Sasha Frere-Jones (now a writer with The New Yorker), Clem Waldmann and Wilbo Wright) were active for well over a decade, releasing three LPs and numerous singles and EPs before breaking up in 2004.

This particular EP was recorded at Southern Studios, London in the summer of 1996, while Ui was on a European tour with Stereolab serving as their opening act.  However, the label didn't get around to mixing and releasing the EP until well over a year later, in late October 1997.  This EP features, among other songs, an excellent cover of Brian Eno's "St. Elmo's Fire", off of his 1975 Another Green World album, along with three radical remixes of the same song.

I don't have any long-winded story related to this disc, other than I recall grabbing this at the old Virgin Megastore in Grapevine, Texas shortly after it was released.  I was just listening to it the other day, and thought that others might like to have a listen to it as well.  Sometimes, brevity is best!

So, here you are - Uilab's Fires EP, released in February 1998 on Duophonic Records (Stereolab's privately owned label).  Enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think.

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Various Artists - The Ska EPs

Last week, a long-held dream of mine come true: I finally saw The Specials live. They played in Boston at the House of Blues, directly across from Fenway Park (the place used to be called the Avalon Ballroom; I saw the Cocteau Twins there years ago on that band's final tour). I learned through the grapevine months ago that they were coming to town (ever since the demise of the local arts paper, the Boston Phoenix, earlier this year, it's been hard to get dependable news about gigs coming through this way), and I've had my tickets for weeks, I was so jazzed to know they were en route.

I will never forget the first time I became aware of The Specials - it was the April 19, 1980 episode of NBC's Saturday Night Live, hosted by Strother Martin; one of the very last episodes to feature the majority of the original SNL cast, in their fifth and final season. As I've mentioned in an earlier post, SNL's fifth season, in terms of comedy, was pretty uneven. But the show's saving grace at the time, and perhaps the best reason to continue watching it that year, was the breadth and quality of the musical guests. Blondie, Chicago, Bowie, J. Geils, Gary Numan, The B-52's - all of them made iconic TV appearances that season. The Specials' appearance was no exception, although I didn't know what to expect until the host introduced them, and the band kicked into a white-hot version of "Gangsters":

With the first note, I practically LEAPT out of my seat and rushed the television, all but pressing my face against the screen so I wouldn't miss a note or a moment. Holy arm-waving shit! The movement - the energy - the music - just jumped out of the set at me! By the end of that first number, I'd already added The Specials to my list of favorite bands.

At that point in time, I would have done anything to have seen them live, and looked forward to their next US visits. But regretfully, The Specials fell apart little more than a year later, soon after the release of their greatest triumph, the timely and prophetic "Ghost Town" single in the summer of 1981. They joined my 'dream list' of bands that I would have loved to have seen in their heyday (a roster than included The Sex Pistols, The Clash and The Police), ones whose time, I assumed, had passed for good, and would never again come to pass . . .

How wrong I was.

Since 1993, The Specials had a number of off-and-on half-assed reunions, groups billed as "The Specials" but including, at best, only a handful of original band members. But it wasn't until September 2008, at the Bestival on the Isle of Wight, that a majority of the original group played together again. Six of the founding seven members were present for that show, for legal reasons at the time billing themselves as "Terry Hall and Friends" (Jerry Dammers pointedly refused to be part of the reunion, claiming that he had been forced out of the band and calling the reformation a "takeover" of the group he was instrumental in forming - a stance and attitude he maintains to this day). The one-off gig was so well-received that by December 2008, the band announced a full-scale international "30th Anniversary" tour, which for the next two and a half years took them all over the globe, playing to wildly enthusiastic audiences. The Specials took a long break from their worldwide trek during 2011 and 2012 to play some gigs closer to home. But earlier this year they resumed their schedule with an extensive, full-fledged American tour.

Before the show, I was a little worried that my enthusiasm and anticipation for finally seeing my longtime musical heroes might be dampened during the actual show - after all, it HAD been thirty-plus years since the band's origins; they weren't spring chickens anymore. Also, I knew that Neville Staple, one of the lead vocalists and the driving force behind getting the group back together, had been forced to drop out of the group earlier this year due to illness.  So there was more than a little trepidation on my part regarding just how good The Specials were going to be that night . . .

My fears were completely unfounded - the band was absolutely fantastic that evening! Everything about that show was right - first of all, the place was packed to the rafters and to the back of the hall with rabid, long-time Specials fans like myself. While there were a goodly number of folks in their twenties and thirties there, the vast contingent of fans there were my age; like me, people who grew up with the band, and remember when their original songs and albums were released in real time.  But that didn't mean that us 'older folks' were just standing around during the show - people were hopping, jumping and skankin' to the beat of EVERY song, and I was skankin' along with them for the entire 90-minute-plus show. I fell in with a group of folks about my age, and together we all danced like fiends, and yelled like banshees, and sang along to the old favorites at the top of our lungs!

The Specials played absolutely EVERYTHING I hoped they would play - most of their hits, including pretty much everything off their debut album (including "Nite Klub", "Do The Dog", "Monkey Man", "(Dawning Of A) New Era", etc.) and the majority of the second album More Specials ("Rat Race", "Enjoy Yourself", "Do Nothing", etc.). There were a few surprises thrown in - including a great version of "Friday Night, Saturday Morning" and, to my utter joy, "Stereotypes" AND "Stereotypes Part 2". And the group was as tight musically as they always were, and as sprightly as if it was 1979 all over again - not an iota of rust on those boys! As they played their final encore tunes, "Ghost Town" and "You're Wondering Now" (which, I might add, I correctly predicted to my companions before the show even started that these would be, in order, the last two songs played . . .), I knew that I had been lucky enough to be part of an epic experience - a few years later than I would have preferred, but epic nonetheless.

In their late 70's/early '80s heyday, The Specials were far from being a household name in the U.S. And despite their massive mainstream U.K. success, the passing of time has caused their music and achievements to fade into the background and out of the overall popular frame of reference in their home country. But the band's influence and importance remains strong in certain circles, both here, there and beyond. It is hard to imagine the emergence and continuing endurance of the worldwide Third Wave and ska-punk movements occurring without The Specials stepping up and spearheading the English ska revival of the '70s. The look the band and its followers and contemporaries (Madness, The Selecter, The Beat) co-opted and championed - the rude boy fashions of porkpie hats, Dr. Martens' boots, Ben Sherman shirts, and black-and-white checks - remains the signature look of ska around the world. Many a modern-day group has attempted by various means to tap into The Specials' leftover legacy, and harness the group's energy (and loyal following) to their own ends.

Beginning in 2008, a few artists took a shot at doing just that; a series of limited-edition bootleg EPs were released, featuring popular mainstream musicians covering classic ska tunes. All were released under mock 2-Tone EP covers paying homage to The Specials' iconic singles packaging of the late 70s/early 80s (shown above) which featured label logo Walt Jabsco and the signature black-and-white checkerboard theme. When I first heard about these discs, I snapped them up just as fast as I could get my hands on them. My reactions to three of them are provided below:

1.  Amy Winehouse - The Ska EP (2008):

Although she was raised listening to classic jazz vocalists like Frank Sinatra (who her debut album was named for), and modeled her later look and sound partially on that of classic '60s girl groups like the Ronettes, the late Amy Winehouse always claimed to be a huge ska fanatic. After she shot to fame in 2006 with the release of her second album, the worldwide smash Back To Black, covers of songs by Toots & The Maytals and The Specials became integral parts of her concert set. As her star rose higher and higher, she began including more and more of these tunes in her gigs; in fact, in 2008, she told Rolling Stone magazine that her next album was going to be heavily ska-influenced.

On June 29th, 2008, audiences were given essentially a sneak preview as to what this future Amy Winehouse ska album would sound like, when she performed an extended set at the Glastonbury Festival.  At that gig, she sang a number of Specials hits, including "Monkey Man" and "You're Wondering Now" [ed. note: apparently, she did a couple of these songs at the previous year's Glastonbury as well]. Shortly after that concert, she slipped into a London studio to commit those tunes and two others (another Specials "Hey Little Rich Girl" and a cover of Sam Cooke's "Cupid") to wax, which was released on a limited-edition bootleg before the summer was out.

I know that it's not considered proper to speak ill of the dead . . . but I've got to call it as I see it - for me, this EP is damn-near unlistenable. Winehouse rambles and slurs her way through the songs; you can't even say that she's off-key, because she never remains on any single key long enough for you to make any comparison. Her version of "Hey Little Rich Girl" is especially cringe-inducing - "sounds like complete shit" is too kind or mild a description for this horror. It's hard to believe that these are professionally produced versions - they sound like Winehouse woke up after an all-night schnapps bender and stumbled into the studio, bringing in with her a couple of ragtag street musicians she met along the way and another street person to run the tape. It's THAT bad, and it makes you wonder what was in her head (or, more likely, not) when she decided to foist these songs onto the public. After listening to them, I didn't feel sorry or embarrassed for Winehouse - I HATED her for butchering these classics. No wonder this was released as a bootleg - no reputable label would have touched these monstrosities with a ten-foot pole.

With Amy's death in 2011, that purported third ska album of hers never came to pass - something that, after my decidedly negative reaction to her Ska EP, I was initially thankful for (the cancelled album, that is - not her death). However, I changed my opinion somewhat after hearing her reggae cover of Ruby & The Romantics' "Our Day Will Come" (released posthumously in November 2011 on Lioness: Hidden Treasures).

The song was actually pretty good, and to me showed how well Winehouse could interpret Jamaican music if she set her mind to it. Shoot - I would have paid good money to hear an album full of these types of songs from her (makes me wish I had back the money I paid for the EP . . .). Too bad she never had the full opportunity to prove just how adept she was with this genre.

2. Lily Allen - The Ska EP (2008):
 

Unlike Amy Winehouse, Lily Allen was into reggae/ska right out of the gate. She grew up with that music; The Clash's Joe Strummer was a close friend of her father and a frequent visitor to her home. During his visits, he brought along mixtapes of Jamaican and Brazilian music, which were played constantly from the time Lily was a toddler. And that early exposure apparently paid off; all of the songs on her international smash debut album Alright, Still show a heavy Jamaican influence.

Frankly, Allen's covers are the best of the three EPs featured in this post. The disc contains only two songs: a version of "Gangsters" recorded live with Specials Terry Hall and Lynval Golding at the 2007 Glastonbury Festival, and a studio version of "Blank Expression". Both songs are great; Allen obviously has a real love and feel for this music, and sings both with the regard and respect that they deserve, while still making the songs her own. I honestly can't say any more about this EP, other than, if you only pick one of these to download, THIS is the one you should choose.

3. No Doubt - The Ska EP (2010):
 

I've already said my piece here about how much I loathe this band. No Doubt had its origins in the California 'Third Wave' ska revival of the late 1980s. But in their quest for commercial success after signing with Interscope Records in 1990, they quickly cast aside any and all vestiges of that association, remaking themselves into an alt-rock radio-friendly band. After they became successful, No Doubt occasionally added ska covers to their live sets, as a "throwback" to "their roots". But to me, it always smacked of pandering, a calculated attempt to show their critics and fans how "cutting edge" and "indie" they really were. What utter rubbish.

No Doubt's versions of "Ghost Town" and "Racist Friend" (from The Special AKA's album In The Studio) were released as part of the bootleg series in 2009. They're serviceable enough, in that the band is playing mostly in time, and is hitting the proper notes and singing the words in the right order. But, similar to the way the band homogenized itself for commercial consumption, the songs here are similarly devoid of any character. Gwen Stefani & Co. just suck the life and feeling out of these hits, making them into something other than the cultural touchstones and trenchant social commentaries they were when The Specials first released them. I don't know what pisses me off more - Winehouse's under-the-influence Specials in-slurrrrr-pretations, or Stefani repeatedly exhorting the crowd to "Put your hands up in the air!" during their blaring arena-rock version of "Ghost Town". Either way, I can't recommend this disc either.

* * * * * * *

So, for better or for worse, that's my take on these three bootleg EPs. I know that a lot of my criticism may seem harsh. But I have long known and loved the original article, produced by The Specials, still one of my all-time favorite bands. So I think I have a right, and an expectation, to be a little critical. It is only by knowing the true meaning of quality - as in the quality music that The Specials released and continue to play - that you can honestly assess the nature of a similar product's worth.

 But I'll let you all hear and judge for yourself. For your listening pleasure, here are The Ska EPs, limited-edition bootlegs released by Lily Allen, No Doubt and the late Amy Winehouse in 2008 and 2009 (the Winehouse one is an extremely limited edition EP, including not only the original four bootleg songs, but their live Glastonbury versions as well, and a tribute cover of one of her songs by The Selecter, done in 2011 mere hours after the report of her death). Enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think.   

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Amy Winehouse - The Ska EP: Send Email    

Lily Allen - The Ska EP: Send Email    

No Doubt - The Ska EP: Send Email

Bitty McLean - Here I Stand EP

I first heard the song "Here I Stand" during my first austral summer in New Zealand, sometime in early January 1994.  It was like it appeared out of nowhere - I'd never heard of this guy Bitty McLean or his music prior to that time; suddenly the song was everywhere, on every station in the country. 

While lightweight, it had a nice sort of old-school dancehall vibe to it, and that was enough to get me to purchase the single and find out more about this young singer.

Delroy McLean was born to West Indian immigrant parents in Birmingham, England in 1972.  During his youth, he was immersed in 60's-era rocksteady and reggae, the sounds of his parents' homeland, and soon became adept at emulating this sound in his own singing.  By the time he reached middle school in the mid-80s, he was fronting as vocalist for some of the major Birmingham sound systems [in the context of West Indian culture, a 'sound system' was a mobile group of engineers, DJs and toasters (MCs) who played popular music (at top volume) at street parties and dance halls - in Jamaica, sound systems were instrumental in the development of ska and reggae, and spurred the formation of local record production companies that ended up spreading this music throughout the world].  Nicknamed "Bitty" due to his young age and small stature, McLean and his singing gained a large local following.

After gaining his GCSE, McLean enrolled in a local Birmingham college, taking courses in sound engineering.  After graduation, he found employment with British roots reggae band UB40, initially as an engineer, soon graduating to assistant producer roles, and even appearing as an occasional background singer on some of their songs (you can hear his vocals featured on the 1993 album Promises and Lies).

At the same time he was working with UB40, McLean was utilizing his studio access to work on his own music, behind the scenes and on the side of his day job.  In the spring of 1993, he inked a deal with small independent Brilliant Records, and in late July the label released his first single, "It Keeps Rainin' (Tears From My Eyes)", a cover of an old Fats Domino tune from the early 60s.  The song was a sensation in England, staying on the national charts for six months and peaking at #2.  The song was also popular in several other European and Commonwealth countries, topping the charts in Holland and New Zealand (which was strange, because I don't recall hearing it there at all).  Brilliant released Bitty's first album, Just To Let You Know..., in the fall of 1993; his second single, "Pass It On", didn't do as well as his debut.  But it still made the British Top 40.

Virgin Records, never one to be caught flat-footed when there was a dollar to be made in music, quickly swooped in to acquire McLean's contract and recording rights from Brilliant, and by the beginning of 1994 had rereleased Just To Let You Know... under their own label.  Learning the lesson of the relative failure of Bitty's second single, Virgin put all of its marketing muscle and expertise behind the release of the third album single, "Here I Stand".  The effort paid off; "Here I Stand" was McLean's second big international hit, reaching the Top Ten in England and elsewhere, including New Zealand.  In the months that followed, Virgin culled two more British Top 40 singles off of this album: a reggae-fied cover of The Shirelles' "Dedicated To The One I Love", which made it to #6 that May, and "What Goes Around", which only reached #36 that August.

Bitty McLean's music was popular and enjoyable enough, but more than a bit derivative.  Unlike his former employers UB40 (who, to their credit, gave their former engineer their full support, and even toured with him for part of 1993), the vast majority of McLean's music avoided any controversial or political themes.  His tunes were mostly inoffensive 'lovers rock' - light, soulful, 'crooners' reggae - a style and stance that put him at odds with the prevailing trends in reggae at that time.  In addition, almost all of Bitty's hits were reggae covers of already-popular songs - along with the Fats Domino and Shirelles songs I mentioned earlier, "Here I Stand" was an old Justin Hines tune.  So while the general public at large was receptive to him, in the world of reggae purists, McLean was considered a sellout and a fraud.  However, as long as his records kept selling, this stance wouldn't be a problem for him.

Unfortunately, McLean's commercial success vanished just as quickly as it came to him.  His second album, Natural High, was released in early 1995 but did not chart.  Most of the singles released off of this album reached the extreme lower end of the British Top 60.  Within 24 months of his greatest successes, Bitty was a has-been in the industry.  He quietly returned to his engineering and production duties, working mostly with his old friends UB40.

However, in the past ten years McLean has made a comeback of sorts, releasing a couple of albums of rocksteady covers (2003's Soul To Soul and 2005's On Bond Street KGN, JA) and two studio albums with Sly & Robbie in Jamaica, 2007's Made In Jamaica and 2009's Movin' On.  With his recent work and his tours with Sly & Robbie, his reputation has improved somewhat in hardcore reggae circles.  His latest stuff hasn't reached the commercial heights of his early '90s material, but he seems contented now with improved critical acclaim.

That isn't to say that his early stuff was without quality.  Here, for you consideration, is Bitty McLean's Here I Stand EP, released in England in January 1994 on Virgin Records.  This disc features the original song, a seven-minute dub version, and a "60's version" (basically, McLean singing the same song over a simulated "dusty LP" crackle), along with the non-album single "Don't Be Confused".  Enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think.

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An appeal on behalf of Chris Sheehan

A few weeks ago, while I was on my way to New York City one morning for a weekend of fun, my phone buzzed, indicating receipt of a new email message.  I took a quick glance at it to see who it was, and practically ran off the road when I saw the addressee - none other that Mr. Chris Sheehan himself.

For longtime readers of this blog, you'll know that Chris Sheehan was the driving force/sole member of The Starlings, a "group" that released a couple of fine albums in the early '90s, 1993's Valid and 1994's Too Many Dogs - both of which I wrote about at length here back in 2010.  Before his work with The Starlings, Sheehan was a longtime member of the legendary and popular New Zealand group The Dance Exponents (joining the band when he was only eighteen).

After being unceremoniously kicked off of Dave Stewart's Anxious Records in the mid-90s in the contentious wake of the commercial failure of his first album and his spleen-venting, label-attacking second album, I wrote that Sheehan's personal commercial viability had ended, and since that time he had been "working on fringes of the music industry" as a musician-for-hire, playing with such as The Sisters of Mercy and The Mutton Birds.  I was pretty sure that what I wrote regarding Sheehan's career was pretty accurate (I do try to put in some research into the things I write!).  Still, as excited as I was to receive the first note from an artist I'd actually posted about, I was a little nervous about reading his message - I thought he might be a bit P.O.ed with my characterization of him.  I pulled over at the first rest stop I came to and, with some trepidation, opened my email to read his message.

Well, my fears were completely unfounded; as it turned out, his email couldn't have been more pleasant.  Here's what he wrote:

Hey, great stuff.  I sneaked off and released 2 albums as Chris Starling: Planet Painkiller in about 2000 [ed: actually, 1999], and Sounds Like Chris Starling in 2002.  P.P. was on my own label and sounds like as well but it came out thru Pop Child in Europe.  Haven't squeaked a note since the last record and have lived abroad for more than 10 years.

Thanks for writing about the records
Chris

Relieved, I wrote him back immediately:

Dear Mr. Sheehan -

I saw that I received an email about an hour ago, and when I looked at who it was from, I practically fell out of the car!  Wow - Chris Sheehan himself!  I'm very excited and honored to hear from you!

I'm glad you had the opportunity to read my screed regarding your first album - as I said, I LOVED pretty much every song on it . . .  (BTW - over the years since I wrote this, I've sometimes imagined that you read the part about Too Many Dogs being a "Fuck You" masterpiece at the label and laughing your head off…!)

. . . Well, this is all very, very cool!   Thanks tons for contacting me.  I look forward to hearing from you again soon.  Until then, 

Best wishes always - 

And of course, I couldn't resist asking him:

. . . I hope that my assessment of your life and situation with Dave Stewart's label at that time was accurate.  Please know that everything I wrote was from the heart, and not a slam on you at all; the label screwed you on that first album, which should have been HUGE . . .

Chris's immediate and succinct response was perfect:

Don't worry, you were right!

Since that first exchange, Chris and I have written back and forth a couple of times, and we've 'friended' one another on Facebook.  In his notes and in the few posts he's made to his Facebook page, he's seemed relatively happy and settled with his wife in his current life - at least as far as I could tell.  I was sort of sad to hear that he had been out of music for the past decade, and in one of my notes to him, I wrote the following:

I hope that, when the yen strikes you, you get back to making more music - I have a feeling that there's still plenty within you, and lots more you want to say . . .

I didn't think much of it when he didn't respond to that.  Yesterday morning, I found out why.

Just before heading off to work, I made a quick check of my Facebook page, and found a new post by Chris, for a site called Fundrazr.com, a crowd funding site where people and organizations can raise money for charitable, entrepreneurial, political and personal causes and projects (it appears to be a pretty successful fundraising application; since its founding in 2009, the site has raised more than $20 million for its users). 

The title of Chris's appeal jolted me: "1 Last Album Despite Incurable Cancer".

Here's the narrative he wrote to explain the motivation behind his Fundrazr drive:

I can't justify any of my limited income to be spent on my own non-profit activities. Stage 4 metastatic nodular melanoma. Clinical trials and palliative treatment only. Wife terminally ill. Dozens of rescue animals. I don't own a computer anymore and would like a good laptop and software to see what comes out. I will not divert money from my family for selfish artistic urges. Maybe someone who enjoyed a Starlings record at sometime is flush. The closest I've been is flushed. Anyway if no one helps I'm off the hook so nothing to lose. Ta Chris.

For the second time in less than a month, Chris Sheehan had jolted me again.  Now I know why he was so reticent to discuss a return to recording.  If you check the link to Chris's Fundrazr.com account here, you will see photos posted of the surgery that he has already undergone in an attempt to combat this disease.  It's sad enough that he's going through what he's going through; the fact that his wife is also terminal just compounds the tragedy.

Folks, I don't want to be melodramatic about this - but this is real, and no B.S.; Chris Sheehan is seriously ill.  There's no easy way to put this . . . but there's no getting over what he has.  But during the time he has left, he just wants to have one last opportunity to make available to the world just a small amount of the music he has left within him; a final testament and legacy for his friends, family and fans to remember him by. 

I've never felt the need to include dramatic appeals of this type on my blog before.  I have no lofty goals, aims or aspirations for this site beyond making some good music available to like-minded readers, and making a few friends from amongst you along the way.  And it's rare that I serve up anything high-minded or profoundly philosophical in my writing - I usually just pen silly, lightweight stories that tangentially relate to songs and albums I have enjoyed throughout my life.  But if there was ever a time for me to set all of that aside for a moment, and use this blog as a pulpit to hopefully help out a really good guy like Chris Sheehan, who could really use a hand at this time, NOW is the time for me to do so.

So please, if you can, check out Chris Sheehan's Fundrazr site.  If you're willing and able, please contribute what you can to his appeal.  And also, if you can, leave him a note - he's always happy and appreciative to hear from his fans.  If you haven't heard any of his music, click on this link for my Starlings posting from three years ago, and contact me for a link to the album - I think you'll enjoy it as much as I do.

I'd also appreciate it if some of my fellow music bloggers could pick up Chris's link as well - the more people know of this, the more success he'll be in meeting his 5,000 Euro goal.

Thanks -

All the best to you all from Pee-Pee Soaked Heckhole

Devo - Freedom Of Choice

Just learned about the death of former Devo band member Alan Myers this morning, and wanted to say a few brief words in his honor.

In the obituaries I've read, they kept referring to Alan as "the third Devo drummer".  To me, he will always be known as "Devo's drummer", period - all who came before and after him were just pretenders to his drum stool.  Alan supplied the off-kilter, precision beats to every song in the band's heyday, from their debut album Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! through to Devo's 80's mainstream popularity.  The guy was nothing more than the 'glue', whose steady work at the skins defined the Devo sound and held the group together through some increasingly iffy albums in the early 1980s (1981's New Traditionalists, 1982's Oh

No! It's Devo, and 1984's Shout), as Devo moved away from its New Wave roots and became more of a synthesizer-driven pop band.

Myers finally quit the band in the mid-80s, as Devo began to rely more and more on electronic drums for their music.  In hindsight, he left the band almost exactly at the right time, as Devo became more and more of a faded cartoon imitation of itself as it soldiered on into the early 1990s.  I always respected Alan for having the instincts and integrity to get out when he did, instead of hanging on for more Devo paychecks doing music he didn't respect and had little input into.  After he parted ways with Devo, he remained in Los Angeles and became a electrical contractor, but still found time to play on the weekends in local bands with his wife (Skyline Electric) and daughter (Swahili Blonde). 

He was apparently happy and contented with his life, so much so that he had no interest in joining his old band mates when Devo hit the oldies circuit in the mid-90s and began recording again in the mid-2000s.  While he was no longer a part of Devo, to true fans, he will ALWAYS be part of that band.

I could write plenty more about Alan's passing, but there have been tributes a-plenty out there already, written a lot better than any I could have put together.  One of the best was in today's Los Angeles Times - check it out when you have the chance.

For myself, I always thought that Devo peaked with their 1980 album Freedom Of Choice.  In addition to containing their biggest hit, "Whip It", it also has the best overall collection of music since their debut album - all driven by Myers' relentless beat.  Here's the band playing a live version of one of my favorite songs off of this album, "Snowball":

Just listen to those licks he's laying down - spot on every time!

So, in tribute to the late Alan Myers, here's Devo's Freedom Of Choice, released on Warner Brothers Records on May 16th, 1980.  Enjoy, and as always, let me know what you think.

R.I.P. Alan.

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Mary Hansen - Hybird EP

I should have been a Stereolab fan long before I actually became one, but for some reason the band and I never connected up.  They had long been on the periphery of my consciousness, but it took years for the connection between us to be made.

Oddly enough, I had the opportunity to be into Stereolab from nearly the very beginning. The band made their first U.S. appearance in the fall of 1992, with a week of shows in selected clubs on the East Coast. After their debut gig at the Knitting Factory in New York and a follow-on performance at the legendary Maxwell's in Hoboken, New Jersey, Stereolab travelled to the Nation's Capital for a show at the 9:30 Club on the evening of Sunday, October 25th. That afternoon, however, the band had scheduled an in-store performance at Vinyl Ink Records (now long defunct) in nearby Silver Spring, Maryland, playing stuff off of their debut LP Peng!

I was actually in the store that very afternoon, a couple of hours earlier, trolling for CDs to replace some that had recently been stolen out of my car while it was parked overnight in my 'secure' apartment garage in Arlington (those thieving bastards took some great stuff - early import copies of stuff like The Fall's Dragnet and The Smiths' Hatful of Hollow - things that ended up taking years to replace). I messed around at Vinyl Ink for about an hour or so, but couldn't find anything I was looking for. I noticed the flyers around the store announcing the Stereolab gig, and I know I walked by the open area of the store where they would be playing several times during my visit that day (the mikes and cords were already set up). But I had no idea who the band was at the time, and didn't know a thing about their music. Plus, I didn't feel like hanging around Silver Spring all day . . . so I bolted. In hindsight, I made a big mistake.

It was years later that I began getting into the band. While on my grad school internship up in Cambridge, Massachusetts during the summer of 1996, I went to a show at TT The Bear's Place in Central Square that featured three bands, including the headliner The Kelley Deal 6000.  I enjoyed the music so much that over that night and the next day, I acquired the latest releases of all three, including The Laurels and Trona. Although at the time I didn't like Trona's album as much as I hoped I would, one song on it stood out - "Wow And Flutter", which I soon discovered was a cover version of a Stereolab song. After this revelation, I quickly ran out to find the source of the original - 1994's Mars Audiac Quintet, which I tracked down at the old HMV store in Brattle Square, near Harvard University.

With the first listen, I became an instant fan. Songs like "International Coloring Contest", "Ping Pong" and "Fiery Yellow" helped carry me through that summer. It was the music itself that first drew me in; It took me a little while to fully comprehend the Gallic-inflected, politically-charged lyrics of French-born lead singer Laetitia Sadier.  But I was jazzed enough about this band that I immediately set out to acquire their back catalogue.

The first of their past albums that I purchased was their most recent one (for that time), Emperor Tomato Ketchup, released in April 1996. I couldn't have picked a better one to stoke my Stereolab fandom - Emperor Tomato Ketchup was the first album where the band began to expand its musical horizons and move away from the "drone" rock that had been the hallmark of their earlier albums. On this album, Stereolab ventured into the realms of hard rock ("The Noise Of Carpet"), hip-hop ("Metronomic Underground"), funk ("Spark Plug") and dance music ("Emperor Tomato Ketchup"), while still retaining the group's unique sound and flair. I thought practically every song on this album was fantastic, but it was through the ones that became my particular favorites ("Cybele's Reverie" and "Les Yper Sound") that I first became more completely aware of the vocal byplay between Sadier and backing vocalist Mary Hansen.

Mary Hansen was born in Brisbane, Australia in 1966, one of eight children of a member of the Australian parliament and his wife, a former opera singer. Mary's early life was fairly uneventful; she graduated from high school at 17, and for a while worked at a bank and other businesses in and around the Brisbane area. Tiring of her routine life in Australia, Mary moved to London, England in 1988, where she began dabbling on the fringes of the local music scene there.  She soon became a backing singer for local indie rock artists The Wolfhounds (one of their songs was included on the celebrated and influential NME C86 cassette compilation in 1986).

At a show in 1989, The Wolfhounds opened for the band McCarthy, at the time a big name in English indie rock. Hansen met McCarthy guitarist and band founder Tim Gane at the gig, and they quickly became friends. Gane broke up McCarthy soon after that aforementioned gig, and with his girlfriend Sadier and transplanted Kiwi musician Martin Kean (briefly a member of New Zealand's The Chills) began working on a new project that quickly evolved into Stereolab. Gane didn't forget his new friend, though. He invited Mary to join the new band just before the band's first recordings; by the time Stereolab's first LP, Peng!, was released in April 1992, Mary was a full-fledged member, playing guitar and keyboards and contributing backup vocals.

Hansen's voice was the perfect complement to Sadier's; their singing styles and vocal range were very similar . . . but different enough to add nuance and color to many of the band's songs. Those two songs I mentioned above, "Cybele's Reverie" and "Les Yper Sound", were the ones that first hooked me on the depth and quality of their intertwined voicess. But as the years passed and my Stereolab fandom (and collection) grew, I found many more examples of this byplay that I fell in love with: "Sadistic" and "Lo Boob Oscillator" from Refried Ectoplasm, "Miss Modular" and "Refractions In The Plastic Pulse" off of Dots & Loops; "Captain Easychord" from Sound-Dust. By the early 2000s, Hansen and Sadier had all but perfected their unique 'sing-song' style of vocal counterpoint and harmony that helped establish Stereolab as one of the best, most influential bands of the era. As far as I was concerned, "The Groop" had never put out a bad song, and I looked forward to each new release every year or so.

Stereolab released Sound-Dust in late 2001, and in 2002 they began preparing for their next album by building their own studio in France. There was a little band friction over that summer, as Gane and Sadier ended their long romantic relationship. But they elected to remain together as band mates, and keep Stereolab going as an operating concern. As a lead-up to commencing recording of their next album in their new home, in October their label released ABC Music: The Radio 1 Sessions, a compilation of the band's live recordings over the years on the BBC. At the end of that year, the group was preparing to leave London and relocate to Bordeaux for their next recording session. All in all, things were looking pretty positive for the band.

On the afternoon of December 9th, 2002, Mary Hansen was killed when a truck backed into her while she was riding her bicycle near London's Finsbury Square.

At that time, I was reading a lot of online news, regularly reviewing major domestic and international Internet sources like the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, SkyNews and Reuters. I came across the news of Mary's death while browsing the December 10th version of BBC News, and I was just . . . stunned. It seemed unreal, and unfathomable. I never knew much about her private life or personality - all of the members of Stereolab were enigmas in that regard, offering up few personal details in their music and interviews. But Mary's loss was a significant blow to me. What I knew of her, I knew through her music . . . and now the source of that music was no more, gone in an instant. It was hard to wrap my head around it. The jolt I received from her death was just as great as the one I received less than two weeks later, when the sudden death of The Clash's Joe Strummer made international headlines.

Stereolab was just as stunned as their fans were; the band went on a long hiatus as its members grieved for their lost friend. But near the end of 2003, Stereolab began to regroup, and by that fall had released their first post-Hansen recording, the Instant 0 In The Universe EP. The band continued releasing albums and EPs up until their breakup in late 2009. I quite enjoyed all of these releases, including long-players like 2004's Margerine Eclipse (essentially a Hansen tribute album) and 2008's Chemical Chords, and I attended a couple of the band's tours during that time. But as good as the music continued to be, there always seemed to be something . . . missing from late-period Stereolab in terms of their musical approach - and that missing piece was the small but essential contribution Mary Hansen made to each and every recording.

Hansen had a very active musical life outside of Stereolab, recording vocals on releases by Mouse On Mars and The High Llamas, and teaming up with members of Seattle band Hovercraft to form the space-rock collective Schema (which released an EP in 2000).  But very little of Hansen's own music was available until 2005, over two years after her passing, when her friends gathered up the few recordings she had made on her own and released them on the EP Hybird. The disc (featuring Hansen's own artwork) contains three songs that she completed before her death, plus a fourth previously unfinished track that was completed by her old Stereolab bandmate Andy Ramsey. The music is infused with the signature 'Stereolab sound', but filtered through Hansen's own musical esthetic. The best track, in my opinion, is "Twenty Feet Behind", a gentle, swirling wash of organ, xylophone and drums, suffused with Mary's signature "Ah-ahs" . . . beautiful.

But I'll let you hear the rest for yourself and come to your own conclusions. Here, for your listening pleasure, is the only solo release by Stereolab's Mary Hansen, the Hybird EP, released posthumously on Horizontal Records on February 18th, 2005. Have a listen, and as always, let me know what you think.

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Ween - Pure Guava

On the evening of Wednesday, June 2nd, 1993, the Naval Antarctic Support Unit (NASU), Christchurch, New Zealand, held one of its periodic Hail and Farewell ceremonies after working hours at the Southern Lights Bar, located on the edge of U.S. Navy property close by Christchurch International Airport. The event on this particular evening marked the departure of the current base Supply Officer, Nan, and the arrival of the new SUPPO - me, a fresh-faced lieutenant, recently arrived from a duty station near Washington, DC.

I had worked closely with my old friend Nan (we were friends back at the Naval Academy a few years earlier) for the past couple of weeks since I landed in NZ, meeting the people and learning the ropes related to my position. This day was our last joint stewardship of the office, and we spent the morning and early afternoon turning over responsibilities, with Nan providing me with the final bits of information and instruction needed to fully get into my new job at NASU. But she left the administration building earlier than usual that afternoon, ostensibly to run some errands out in town and to head home to prepare for the evening's festivities. I slogged away at paperwork for the rest of the day, then at five o'clock I quickly changed into civilian clothes, left the office and walked over to the Southern Lights (my car was still weeks away from arriving; I assumed it was on a container ship somewhere in the Eastern Pacific at that time). Some petty officers were already there, getting things ready along with the civilian bar staff. I was one of the early arrivals at the bar, so a grabbed a beer and tried to make myself useful, helping set up the stage and all for the ceremony and party that followed.

I was there working away diligently, hanging crepe paper and running microphone wires across the floor, and didn't really notice when Nan arrived about half an hour afterwards. I only realized she was there when she called my name.  I turned from my work to find that she had not arrived alone - next to her stood a girl . . . quite possibly the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen in my life. She was young, no older than 22, with a lovely face framed by long, flowing golden hair and a tight little body that you could break rocks on, one that was perfectly proportioned in all the right places.

To quote one of my favorite authors, Raymond Chandler, "Whatever you wanted, wherever you happened to be, she had it."

I'm sure at that moment I had a look of shock and awe on my face - that goofy look all guys get when they are suddenly faced with a smoking hot woman - but I quickly straightened out my features (at least, I thought I did) as I stepped towards my old friend and this angel that accompanied her. If Nan saw the look I had, she tactfully didn't mention it. What she DID do was introduce me to her friend - "I'd like for you to meet . . . " - well, for this story, let's call her 'Fiona'.

I have no idea what sort of noises stammered out of my mouth as I shook Fiona's hand - I can only hope that what I said was semi-coherent and not flecked with the spittle and marbles that suddenly seemed to fill my mouth. Yes - she was just THAT flabbergastingly beautiful. To cover my stuttering, self-conscious embarrassment at being so near to this vision's gorgeous presence, I quickly offered to get both her and Nan a drink from the bar - if only to get away from Fiona for a few seconds and gather myself together.  I only bumped into two people while making my strategic, hazy, hasty retreat.

While I stood waiting for their drinks, my mind racing and heart thudding against my ribs, I tried to suss out why Nan had brought Fiona along to this dreary Navy event in this rather dingy little military bar. I couldn't for a moment fathom that Fiona was there for my benefit, and Nan was making a conscious, calculated attempt to throw the two of us together to see what might occur. I just figured that Nan had decided to bring an old friend along to her final NASU function, and everything else was just a figment of my overactive (and hopeful) imagination.

But to my mild shock and utter joy, I discovered as the evening wore on that Nan had brought Fiona along for PRECISELY that reason - to introduce her to me and possibly play matchmaker between the two of us. Unbeknownst to me, Nan had been 'talking me up' to her unattached friend in the days after my arrival in country, and Fiona was eager to meet me. I brought their drinks over and sat with the two of them for a while, and found myself chatting at length with Fiona; I found that she was just as funny and charming as she was beautiful. In no time at all, we were laughing and chatting away like we had known one another for years. I was attracted to her immediately - the whole person, not just the package. I began thoroughly enjoying her company and presence near me - so much so that I didn't notice when Nan slipped away and left the two of us together alone (heh - that sly lady . . . what a friend!).

At one point during the Hail and Farewell, I had to get up on stage with the NASU Commanding Officer to be introduced and to say a few words. That briefly left Fiona by herself at our table. I was savvy enough to notice during the time we'd spent talking together the furtive, hungry glances directed at her by some of the other attendees, so I knew that the 'wolves' would be pouncing the moment I left her by her lonesome (I personally think that that's a cardinal violation of the unwritten "Code of the Guys" that men live under, but that's neither here nor there . . . ). As I stood and did my thing, I watched as the first would-be snake slithered over to make his move. In no time at all, Fiona had sent him scurrying away; she apparently was an expert at that sort of thing - not only putting the guy in his place, but also serving notice to the rest of the pack that she was there with me for that evening. After that, I couldn't help but like her more and more.

After the main events, everyone hung out at the Southern Lights for the after-party. Fiona and I mingled for a bit, then went back together to the bar's game room. We played shuffleboard as a team against two other NASU guys (I can't remember if we won or lost - frankly, it didn't really matter much to me at the time). And we shot pool on the base table, where I had occasion to execute a textbook "guy" move on a pretty girl, the "teaching-her-how-to-hold-the-cue-and-aim-at-the-ball" routine, with me standing behind her, holding her close in front of me.

After a while, the party at the Southern Lights began breaking up, so I threw caution to the wind and asked this lovely woman out to dinner with me that evening. She eagerly accepted, which pleased me to no end. We took her white station wagon down the main drag into downtown Christchurch, and ended up eating in the dining room of the Rydges Hotel, hard by the River Avon - the swankiest place I knew of in my limited access into the city. During our dinner, and in fact during that entire night, she was as sweet and delightful a person as I'd ever met in all my life.

After dinner, she drove me back to my temporary accommodations, a corner suite at the Airport Gateway Motel off of Memorial Avenue, and we said our good nights with a handshake and a quick peck - but not before I managed to wrangle her phone number and a promise of a second date out of her (I say 'wrangle' . . . but I don't recall her hesitating very much . . . !). I walked into my Spartan little room that night, giddy about my future in Christchurch, and completely head-over-heels for this amazing girl. You dream about things like this coming to pass, and they rarely if ever do. However, when the impossible happens and lightning does strike - wellsir . . .

Fiona and I had our second date that weekend, and in the days and weeks that followed spent more and more time together. Before the month was out, we were firmly established as a couple. She all but moved into my temporary lodgings with me; I'd make her pancakes some mornings, and in the evening sometimes we would just stay in, snuggling on the couch watching "Shortland Street" or something else on one of the four New Zealand TV channels that existed at the time. She was fascinated by everything

'American' - our accents, our customs and holidays (she attended her first Independence Day picnic at NASU on a wintery July afternoon - most of the activities took place in the base gym), and the foods from 'back home' that I could get at the small base commissary. Fiona became obsessed with things like Calistoga water, lima beans, Almond Roca and potato sticks (these especially!), things unfamiliar and unavailable in the world she'd grown up in.

And due to Fiona, I got my first full-scale immersion in this new land that was to be my home for the next couple of years. With her as my guide and driver, we went out and about. My first trips to Sumner, Lyttleton, the Banks Peninsula and Kaikoura were made with her. She showed me where to find the best local restaurants for Kiwi fare - from the extensive local wine selection at Saggio Di Vino to the steamed mussels at the Dux de Lux and the delicious desserts at Strawberry Faire. We did highbrow stuff - like attend a formal reception together for New Zealand military officers.  We did

lowbrow stuff - like race go-karts around a local track, and go to see cheesy dreck like Sommersby at the Hoyts 8 cinema. But mostly, we were just together, and had lots of fun with one another. And at that point in my life, it was all good.

My car finally arrived in late July (along with the rest of my household goods), and soon afterwards I moved into a little bungalow in Hoon Hay, a neighborhood near the southern edge of the city. Fiona was over a lot, and we'd spend time hanging out there enjoying one another's company, or she would go through my already voluminous music collection, playing whatever tickled her fancy.  I was working out at the NASU "Powerhouse" gym practically every day, hitting the weights or utilizing the recently-constructed glass-walled racquetball court. And most of the time Fiona would come along with me. We made quite a couple - arriving on base in my gleaming golden Porsche, and stepping out into the Powerhouse Gym parking lot, with her dressed in a form-fitting leotard. During some of our early visits there, she used the weights or stretched alongside me, and drew many a lustful eye in her direction. But soon she decided that she wanted to make use of the building's aerobics area, and asked if I could make her a mixtape of songs she selected from my collection to work out to.

One of the first songs she selected for me to tape for her was a tune I'd introduced her to a few weeks earlier, "Push Th' Little Daisies" by Ween. She loved this song so much, that it was usually one of the first things she'd put on the stereo when she came over my place; she'd bounce around the house while the band belted out their insanely, annoyingly catchy tune:

Ween was formed in New Hope, Pennsylvania in 1984 by two misfit junior high school students, Aaron Freeman and Michael "Mickey" Melchiondo, Jr., who met in 8th grade typing class. They initially didn't like each other, but soon found that they had a lot in common, socially and musically. They began jamming together (both were multi-talented instrumentalist, with a penchant for the absurd), and soon formed the band Ween, an abbreviated version of the common schoolyard portmanteau rank-out word "weenis" (combining "wussy" and "penis"), adopting the respective personas of "Gene Ween" and "Dean Ween". During their remaining years in junior high and high school, Ween produced a series of self-released home recordings on cassette (with names like The Crucial Squeegie Lip and Erica Peterson's Flaming Crib Death). They also gained a loyal audience playing shows at local New Hope bars.

Soon after their high school graduation in 1989, Ween was signed to Twin/Tone Records, and released their first album, GodWeenSatan: The Oneness, the following year. Their second long-player, The Pod, quickly followed in 1991.  Both albums were eclectic, quirky, musically adventurous - and virulently non-commercial. Yet somehow, they sold. Ween was part of that strange early-90s alternative 'avant-garde', almost comedy-rock genre, which included bands like King Missile and The Dead Milkmen, whose music featured vocal distortion, humorous lyrics and excellent musicianship. Like those other groups, Ween became a semi-popular cult band . . . so much so that label giant Elektra Records came calling. Elektra actively courted them, and ended up wooing them away from Twin/Tone in the summer of 1992.

    

Pure Guava, Ween's major label debut, was released in the late fall of 1992.  The local alternative station, WHFS, began playing "Push Th' Little Daisies" to death, and I thought it was so great that I ran out to buy the album. It took me a while to work up to exploring Pure Guava in depth, beyond the hit single - I found most of the first few songs I heard just too weird, even for me; full of high- or low-pitched vocals and highly manipulated, out-of-tune sounds.  But with a little persistence, I delved deeper, and discovered that as 'weird' as it was, practically the entire album was excellent. Songs I especially liked included "Little Birdy", "Big Jilm" and "Poop Ship Destroyer". But the standout tune on Pure Guava, for me, was "Sarah", a rare moment of restraint and seriousness on the album. Gene croons a soulful paean of love for the aforementioned girl, accompanied only by Dean on slide guitar: 

"When I find you in your sleep, Sarah

I will tell you what you mean to me,Sarah

I know this big world ain't always what it seems, Sarah

Forever may I love you, and forever may you dream, Sarah

When I find you in your sleep, Sarah

I will tell you what you mean to me, Sarah"

The result was an effective, emotive, authentic country song - not something that anyone would expect from this group in 1992, but a foretaste of Ween's later forays into the country genre, the high point of which being their 1996 album 12 Golden Country Greats, recorded in Nashville with a bevy of celebrated C&W veterans.

In addition to "Push Th' Little Daisies", I put a lot of other HI-NRG dance-type stuff onto Fiona's workout tape. But the Ween song was the tune she loved and played the most. Ween put out a total of eleven studio albums during their lifetime, along with six live albums and numerous singles. But frankly my interest in the band waned considerably after Pure Guava - not for any particular reason, mind you. I just moved on musically to other sounds, and after a while stopped paying attention to what they were up to. Their final album was La Cucaracha, released in 2007.  The band broke up only just last year, after nearly thirty years together. 

Ween lasted a lot longer than Fiona and I did. Within a year, we had gone our separate ways. I'll spare you the details . . . other than to say that the fault for our breakup was entirely my own. I behaved abominably, and did things that hurt her feelings and drove her away from me. It's not something I'm especially proud of; in fact, to this day, it embarrasses and hurts me to think about it. Through my own fault, I lost the affection of a wonderful girl. After years of estrangement and bitterness between us, Fiona finally forgave me and I made amends. We have both left New Zealand and live on opposite sides of the world, and although I haven't been in her immediate presence in over fifteen years, we still speak with each other regularly and have become good long-distance friends.

I try not to dwell too much on the "what might have been" with Fiona - that's a fool's game. I am happy with the way my life has turned out up to this point, and would happily retain the certainty of my current position and happiness for the more unknown life I might have had with her, had we stayed together.  Sometimes, however, thoughts along those lines do creep into my mind . . . but I quickly try to think about something else. With that being said, I did enjoy the time I had with her.

When I look back and recall those wonderful golden days with my beautiful girlfriend in that faraway country, a romance which began twenty years ago this very day, I don't think much about the places we travelled or the grand things Fiona and I did together. I think about the more private, personal times we shared - sitting side by side on the couch, eating potato sticks and watching TV movies at her place; going out for pizza at Winnebago's downtown; sitting on Sumner Beach, just watching the waves; driving out to Akaroa with the sunroof open . . . and of course, watching her joyfully jump around the living room while Ween played through the speakers at top volume. Nowadays, I can't help but think of her, every time I play that stupid, annoying . . . and utterly joyous song.

Here it is for you to bounce around to, too: Ween's Pure Guava, released by Elektra Records on November 15th, 1992.  Enjoy - and as always, let me know what you think. 

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The Simpsons - Songs In The Key Of Springfield

Phil Hartman (1948 - 1998) died fifteen years ago today.

I remember in detail when and where I first heard about his death.  I was working for a financial services corporation in Irving, Texas, doing a stint in the collections department after being part of the corporate staff, doing work on the commercial lending side, for my first year with the firm.  The collections group was located about two miles from the main headquarters building where I used to work, in a location close by Dallas-Ft. Worth International Airport.  Most of the folks there had worked there together a long time and were a pretty tight-knit group, so there was a lot of grumbling and resentment when I, the young hotshot from Corporate, arrived there to assume a job that at least half a dozen people there felt they deserved more.  Needless to say, my first couple of weeks there were not fun. 

But gradually, most of the people there began to warm up to me.  An important tool that worked in my favor was that, as a former corporate exec, I had been granted and was allowed to keep my unlimited Internet access.  Back in those days, I guess the company's thought was that if everyone had Internet access, all that employees would do was spend all workday screwing around surfing the Web (heh - that never happens nowadays, does it?).  So Web privileges were parsed out only to a fortunate few, mostly senior executives - and, for some reason, me.  This came in handy in my new position that March, during the annual NCAA basketball tournament, when I was able to provide up-to-the-minute scores of tourney games to the multitude of hoops fanatics (and office pool participants) there.  And I wasn't stingy about occasionally letting someone into my office to use Yahoo!  It's always little gestures like that, I've found, that turn people around.

I was sitting in my office on that early morning in late May, taking a break and checking out the news, when I came across the initial headline: "Phil Hartman Dead", with no further details offered at that time.  It was such an unlikely, unexpected, out-of-the-blue story that my mind initially dismissed it as one of those wild, unsubstantiated rumors that used to pop up as "news" in the early days of web reporting.  It was when the second headline popped up a few minutes later with the news of his death that I began to take it more seriously.  It took a while for the details to emerge; as in all murder cases, the circumstances were not pretty:

Apparently he and his wife Brynn had been having marital difficulties, a lot of which stemmed from Brynn's seething jealousy over her husband's success in light of her own failed acting career (well, that along with her rampant booze and drug problems - it seemed that she had a long-standing reputation in the industry and community as a total whack-job).  After another of their many domestic spats that evening, Phil's wife went out and remained out into the wee hours, slamming tequila shooters and snorting coke at a nearby bar.  She came back home at around 3 a.m., and without ceremony shot her husband to death point-blank while he slept in their bed.  Brynn then fled to a friend's house (leaving behind her two small children, who were asleep in the home during this entire incident), telling him about the shooting and promptly falling asleep on the guy's couch.  Initially, her friend didn't believe her story, but after finding the gun in her purse, he began to have second thoughts.  Brynn woke up about three hours later and dragged the guy over to her house, were he found Phil's body and immediately called 911.  By the time the cops arrived, Brynn had locked herself in the bedroom with her husband's corpse.  Before they could break the door down, she had shot herself in the head with a second gun.

It was shocking news - so much so that I got up and left my office in a daze, and stumbled over to the first person I could find to tell them the news.  They were just as shocked.  It just didn't seem possible that something like this could happen to a star of his caliber.  At that point in 1998, Hartman's career was reaching a peak.  He was about to begin his fifth season as the lead on the NBC sitcom NewsRadio.  And through the late '90's he starred in a series of films, including Houseguest, Sgt. Bilko and Jingle All The Way, most of which were poorly received critically but financial successes at the box office.

But, of course, Hartman's greatest success during the 1990s came from his many guest appearances on The Simpsons, and the list of classic characters he left behind - Lyle Lanley (one of the greatest musical performances in Simpsons history - the "Monorail Song"):

Incompetent attorney Lionel Hutz (this is a weird color-free video, but still good):

 And of course, the immortal washed-up actor Troy McClure:

Saturday Night Live, the show that made him famous, did a tribute show in his honor that aired on June 13th, 1998, a couple of weeks after his death, showing clips from Hartman's six-year residency on the program.  They replayed some of his classics:  Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer, The Anal Retentive Chef, Bill Clinton at McDonalds, etc.  One of the last things they played on that show was the following clip, "Love Is A Dream", directed by Tom Schiller.  Jan Hooks, Phil's co-star in this short, presented the piece, and couldn't stop crying as she did so.  After watching it, neither could I - in light of his passing, it is a perfect tribute, but it is devastating:

In a lot of ways, Phil Hartman's comedic work was sort of smarmy and overly broad, but it still had widespread appeal.  While he was never a big favorite with the critics, Hartman had fans of all ages, and to a man, everyone who knew of him was genuinely shocked and saddened by his death.  His friends in the industry knew him as a hard-working, 'normal' guy, seemingly unaffected by his fame and the trappings associated with it, and they were just as stunned as the rest of the public.  As Dan Snierson of Entertainment Weekly magazine wrote, in a column soon after the news broke, Hartman was "the last person you'd expect to read about in lurid headlines in your morning paper . . . a decidedly regular guy, beloved by everyone he worked with."  

The Simpsons was still going somewhat strong in the spring of 1998, the end of the show's eighth season.  And there were plenty of good and excellent individual episodes to come in the program's future seasons.  But I think that if you had to select the single point in time where The Simpsons moved from being classic, 'must-see' TV and started becoming standard, run-of-the-mill fare (or even worse), the loss of Phil Hartman's voice and characterizations is as good a place as any to mark the beginning of the decline. 

A year earlier, Rhino released Songs In The Key of Springfield, a compilation of some of the best musical bits from the show's first seven years.  There's some great stuff on here:  the entire "Oh, Streetcar!" musical episode (including the song ripping New Orleans that angered residents of that city); Tito Puente's outstanding (and authentic) mambo number "Senor Burns"; Beverly D'Angelo (as Lurleen Lumpkin) and her superb country number "Your Wife Don't Understand You".  But my favorite part of this disc is from the "A Fish Called Selma" episode, with the now-classic Troy McClure musical version of Planet Of The Apes:

Frankly, as good as the selections are on this album, there's not enough Phil Hartman on it.  And the public seemed to agree - this disc only made it to #103 on the Billboard Hot 200, significantly below its predecessor, the multi-platinum Top 5 smash The Simpsons Sing The Blues.  Still, this is an excellent overview of some of the great music that went into the show during the early part of its history. 

So, here it is for you to hear for yourself - Songs In The Key Of Springfield, released by Rhino Records on March 18th, 1997.  Enjoy, and while you listen, recall all of the great and hilarious Simpsons moments brought to you by the late, lamented Phil Hartman.  And, as always, let me know what you think. 

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