You all know me. I’m the KassaNostra. I groove hard on all the things that make Kinderland a unique experience. A seamless dance floor transition from Tzadik Katamar to Snoopy to Sestorka? Check. Kids rabidly championing ’20’s Labor Movements or Third World insurrections like it was March Madness? Check. The awesome game-changing power of a Kinderland Tie? Check. But sometimes, it’s nice to know we're just like everybody else out there.
Here is (some of) what folk music is: it is the music of the people; it is music for the people, often without said people's input; it's whatever your local subway busker decides it to be on a moment-by-moment basis; it is the mealticket of griots, shamens and soothsayers worldwide; it's a label exec in a Manhattan office creating a classification that somehow includes John Denver, Kate Bush, Burl Ives, The Moldy Peaches, Ani DiFranco, Fairport Convention, Lee Hayes, and the Holy Modal Rounders; it's the last three songs (but not the first three) that Vin Scelsa played on the air; it is the spirit of Mother Jones crossed with the perseverance of Studs Terkel mated with the veracity of Pecos Bill; it's the song you spontaneously break into in public. But mostly, folk music is a story, and we all tell it our own way.
There's a new four-disc box set of Woody Guthrie music out from Rounder Records. My Dusty Road originated as a series of recordings made during Woody's 1944 sessions for Moe Asch's eponymous label, that ultimately comprised the bulk of his catalog over the next fifteen years. Those sessions were already expertly catalogued, remastered and released by the Smithsonian/Folkways label over a decade back. But a few years ago, a partial set of pristine-condition masters was unearthed from a Brooklyn basement, and it is this discovery that the Rounder discs collect.
Although not new - many of the Rounder tracks have had multiple releases over the last 60 years - the value of this new set is immeasurable. Woody's recorded legacy has heretofore been relegated to the past, the way one appreciates archeological ruins for their former greatness, with only scarce remnants of exotic artistry surviving over time. My Dusty Road plops the Colossus of Rhodes down on our collective front lawn. The music is clean and unspoiled, as if the man himself was standing right next to you, rank like a dog from riding the rails and spilling dust of twelve states on your living room carpet, but with a voice as sharp and clear as a hungry blue jay. Don't take my word for it. Here are two versions of the same recording of This Land Is Your Land, the first from the Folkways collection (released in 1997), and the second from the Rounder set:
Woody Guthrie: This Land Is Your Land [Folkways]
Woody Guthrie: This Land Is Your Land [Rounder]
I'd be crying with joy, except that I'm hung-up on a few things in the accompanying booklet. Like erroneous master track info, or contradictory recording dates cited on different pages, or the fact that one of the set's "previously unreleased" tracks was in fact released under a different title by Folkways, or that Bess Lomax gets screwed out of a credit for some fine harmony work, or that no one bothers to mention whether or not the included version of Hard Travelin' is the song's first-known recording (it most likely is). The booklet's credits exclude any of the Smithsonian archivists who previously catalogued the Asch recordings; its passages contort themselves to avoid any mention of the Folkways releases, of which they are now both historical records and competitors for market share.
Woody Guthrie & Cisco Houston:
I'm Gonna Join That One Big Union
Now, I myself, have no problem picking a fight like this. I like my music with a big hunk of CONTEXT on the side. And so yeah - it bothers me not a little when me plus a couple of hours on the internet and a trip to the library can out-think the system. In this particular instance, the system includes a record label that defines itself by its respect for historical documentation, and an organization whose sole mission is to preserve Woody's legacy for future generations, not to mention countless writers and critics who are professionally obligated to keep the record straight, and it's a shonda that none of them made any discernable effort to be accurate and professional about something they all claim to adore. So yes, I intend to throw a tantrum about it, and none of you need feel obligated to follow behind. No offense, but if you were as perversely overzealous about all this as I am, I'd have already made you out in the comments. But feel free to cheer from the sidelines: this fascist kills machines, so you don't have to.
Woody Guthrie, Cisco Houston & Sonny Terry:
Gonna Roll the Union On
However. . . you should still get your hands on a copy of the damn thing. Why? Two reasons. First, there's no need for us to all be douchebags about this. My opting for raving lunacy is not even close to a rational defense for your missing out on hearing these tunes. If you're any kind of a Woody fan, then this is manna from heaven. And I hope I never write anything that causes anyone to avoid something simply because I feel cranky about it. When I have solid evidence that something royally sucks, believe me, you'll hear about it.
Woody Guthrie, Cisco Houston & Sonny Terry:
Hard Travelin'
The second reason is that folk music doesn't give a crap. Folk music in its most all-encompassing manifestation almost never begins and/or ends with the music itself. Rather, the music is merely one part of a vast oral tradition, forever engorging itself on myth and fact alike, on back-alley innuendo and networked heresies. Often as not the music and lyrics are two independent treasuries of folklore, whose intersection creates a new crossroads which in turn creates a new Robert Johnson legend every time. Every gap in the story is an opportunity for a half-dozen new interpretations, and every verifiable detail is a heated debate waiting to erupt. It is an American manifestation, to be sure, and it is unique in American music genres. Chuck Berry is every bit Americana as Woody Guthrie is, but Berry's story is solid oak. We know Maybellene was recorded on May 21, 1955, that Ebby Hardy played drums, and that it took nearly thirty takes to get right. Its history is as tangible and sharp as the silver-on-blue lettering of the Chess label it bears. But Guthrie - the real Woody Guthrie, who happily played up his Midwestern yokel persona to sell more records to the east coast elites - is as unknowable as a zephyr, and Pete Seeger willed himself out of thin air and Brahmin fortitude, and even Bob Dylan's enigmas have enigmas.
Within that sweeping tradition lies ample space for the contradictions and hypocrisies to lie down next to the benign fables - hell, it's practically a given that they must. Opposites attract, and mate, and sire new urchins, and repeat ad nauseam until each inbred hive of elemental particles congeals in knowable form as a song. And the process is unending - a dustbowl ouroboros swirling furiously around in the caked earth. I have no real beef with Rounder Records, or Nora Guthrie, or the aforementioned critics, or for that matter, with Woody himself. They have their reasons, and they have their place in the story, and I acknowledge that. Just so long as they remember to make room for the KassaNostra, and the cinders I damn sure plan on kickin' up.
(Oh, and apologies to John Dos Passos for that first paragraph.)
Peace & Vinyl,
The KassaNotra
BONUS BEATLES CORRECTION: Yeah, yeah, two months is way too long to go without a new post, and believe me, it was never my intention to leave y'all with only Dennis Hopper for company. Sorry 'bout that. But I have a complaint of my own: my overwrought bravado in the above post notwithstanding, I do NOT consider myself infallible when it comes to the music I write about. When I started this blog, I was hoping to get into at least a few heated dialogues in the comments, but so far things have been pretty tame. What's that they say about two Jews having three opinions?
Case in point: in my last Beatles post way back in September(!), I ragged on the majority of Let It Be covers out there, 'cause they're mostly lame. I finally settled on a Bill Withers take as a decent offering.
Now. . . I would've expected all y'all to have written in to remind me that in 1972, the Verona (NJ) High School Jazz Ensemble scored an invite to the prestigious Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland, where they absolutely killed, with a set that included a nigh-perfect version of that vexing tune. Just so we're clear, that's high school ensemble, and Montreux Jazz Festival. Luckily for us all, my man Larry at the Funky16Corners blog (he's sort of like our music blog godfather) didn't forget, and so here're the goods, for your listening pleasure. C'mon people - it's no fun if you don't holler back.
Just a quickie post, for those of you who got hooked on the weekly updates. Today marks the 36th anniversary of Pablo Neruda's death, which itself coincided with the Pinochet coup that overthrew the democratically elected Allende government in Chile in 1973. The following year, Phil Ochs organized the Friends of Chile benefit concert at Madison Square Garden, which also included Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, the Beach Boys, and a couple of readings by Dennis Hopper, including the following Neruda poem.
Dennis Hopper: Pablo Neruda Poem [live]
Philistine that I am, I can't tell you which Neruda poem this is. And since this occurred during his lost decade, neither can Hopper. If anyone knows, that's what the comments section is for. A recording of the concert - An Evening with Salvador Allende - was later released, and can be downloaded in its entirety here if you're interested.
Was thinking about suspending the Beatles finale for a Mary Travers post, but I'm not enough of a PP&M fan to throw something ad hoc together that's also properly respectful. Something we'll get to later, maybe. Right now, let me tell you how it will be. . .
If you were born anytime after 1968, chances are that Bob Dorough was one of your favorite performers before you were ten years old, without your ever knowing his name. That's because Dorough (pronounced like The Explorer) was the artistic director behind ABC's Schoolhouse Rock! cartoon shorts that've been running on Saturday morning TV since the early 70s – think Three Is a Magic Number, among other classics. When not edu-taining millions of children, Dorough is better known as one of the most eclectic jazz singers of the last fifty years, having released close to two dozen albums, and holding the distinction of being the only vocalist to ever record with Miles Davis (on Davis' 1962 Sorcerer LP). Among his many accomplishments is a quickie collaboration with jazz bassist Steve Swallow: The 44th Street Portable Flower Factory was one of two EPs recorded as promotional giveaways for Scholastic Books. It's unbelievable where great music turns up sometimes. There very well may be better versions of Blackbird floating around, but there is only one Bob Dorough, and getting him into this blog gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling. Also, there aren't any better versions of Blackbird floating around, 'cause Dorough's that amazing.
The Portable Flower Factory: Blackbird
Gabor Szabo is Hungary's all-time greatest jazz guitarist, bar none. (Which lends a little something extra to the "he's world famous in Poland" gag.)
It'd be great if the global universality of Beatle-powered love and good will is what led him to a seemingly unlikely collaboration with Lena Horne, but in actuality, Szabo played on-and-off in her backup band for a few years, and they ended up cutting an album together in 1969; Rocky Raccoon was the b-side of the album's only hit, Watch What Happens. Look, this is just a flat-out brilliant cover – way bluesier and seedier than the original. Which may be for the best, given that the subject material covered here includes infidelity, fisticuffs, hard living, frontier-style vengeance, the cheap moralizing of a remorseless god, and quite possibly a large anthropomorphized nocturnal varmint cavorting undetected amongst humans. (Sorry – after years of completely misunderstanding the song, I can't not think of the protagonist that way. My version is just as poignant, dammit!)
Lena Horne & Gabor Szabo: Rocky Raccoon
How the hell did Come Together ever become a song to rock out to? A few power chords in the chorus notwithstanding, it's one of the Beatles' smoothest numbers. (There's no way that's really the Paul/Ringo rhythm section driving this tune. Don't care what George Martin says. I'm gonna need to see the birth certificate.) I'd really like to blame this on Aerosmith, whose crappy 1978 version turned it into a hard rock anthem. But that doesn't explain swagger-happy pre-'78 versions by Gladys Knight & The Pips, Ike & Tina Turner, and. . . Count Basie?!? (Yeah. . . the less said about that last one, the better.) So I really appreciate The Brothers Johnson for going against the grain on this one with a cover that taps into the original's inherent grooviness. The dual lead vocal effect is an especially nice touch.
The Brothers Johnson: Come Together
There's something about Annie Clark – better known onstage as St. Vincent – that scares the crap out of me. Seriously people, check out her video for Actor Out of Work. Every time she opens her mouth wide I think a murder of crows is gonna fly out and peck everyone bloody.
But. . . she's got a voice like frostbite, and her acute, gossamer vocals balance nicely with the porcelain-and-razor wire creepiness of her visual effect. I know she covered Dig a Pony for her Black Cab Session; here's a better audio take, from a 2007 show at the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth. This song should be pushing all of your eerie-childlike-gibberish buttons anyway, even before you knew she did a take of it. Dig a pony, indeed! Don't the Children of the Corn sing this one in unison? (Not harmony, unison.) Well. . . they should.
St. Vincent: Dig a Pony [live]
If there's a more predictable way to wrap things up than with Let It Be, I can't think of it. Every recording artist in the history of the world may very well have covered this song at one time or another. Thing is, most of 'em play up the gospel angle of the song, which is a mistake. While the Beatles' version obviously draws cues from religious music, it really isn't anything more than an anthemic rock ballad with a little stained glass window dressing. Even John was put off by its generic quality, remarking that it could've just as easily been done by Wings. Artists who try to drag this song closer to its original roots quickly discover there's nowhere to go after those opening chords; they're thinking old-time gospel, but what they end up with is often overwrought, and sometimes even schmaltzy. With that in mind, I'm going with Bill Withers, who manages to pull off a rendition that's spiritual but also vibrant and uplifting. It turns out to be exactly the right way to handle the song, and it makes you wonder if he kept the arrangement in mind a year later when he wrote Lean on Me.
Bill Withers: Let It Be
BONUS NON-TOLLAND ALL-TIME KASSANOSTRA GREATEST BEATLES COVER EVER: Eleanor Rigby is a song we pretty much never sing in camp – we may be the only ones. Much like Let It Be, there are hundreds of recorded versions of this song. (A little Liverpudlian poverty and degradation are the perfect way to class up anyone's album, don'tcha know!) Unlike Let It Be, there are a lot of very good covers out there. Some of them – Aretha Franklin's come to mind – are transcendent. But! If the KassaNostra's learned one unimaginably vital thing in all his years scouring the world for musical sublimity, it's this: never underestimate the raw lounge jazz power of five Filipino-American sisters (plus backing combo) and guiding ex-Zappa collaborator to lay bare the innate depravity in a hit song about the death of a forlorn spinster, and to do it with unquestionable style. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Third Wave (from their 1969 Here and Now LP).
The Third Wave: Eleanor Rigby
And that's it! Next week: The Rolling Stones Kinderland tribute extravaganza!!! Hmmmm. . . may need six posts to cover that one.
Before we get back to the Beatles, Gerry Tenney asked me to mention that Khane Yachness is the translator without whom Schvereh Togedike Nakht would not have been. Gerry says, "She was a Kinderland person herself, and her father Zalmen Yachness was the Lakeland social director for many years, and her mother sang in the chorus and was an actress." Gerry and Khane: a dank.
And now. . .
There are at least a few artists you could accuse of injecting death into a cover version, but James Taylor would probably not top your list. And yet here he is, referencing his own demise at the end of With a Little Help from My Friends. Nu? Not sure what he's up to. Maybe it's the ultimate extension of the sensitive folksinger persona? This song - revised last line and all - was his standard opening number for early 70s live gigs (this particular recording is a 1970 concert at Harvard's Sanders Theatre). Whatever his reasons, kudos to Taylor for steering clear of the clichéd suicide/drug OD approach, in favor of a scenario where his friends bear the responsibility for having done him in. Maybe they finally got sick of the sensitive folksinger persona.
Actually, the Beatles/James Taylor connection is surprisingly conspicuous. Taylor's self-titled debut was released in 1969 on Apple Records, having been recorded the previous year at London's Trident Studios, where the Beatles were next door putting The White Album together. The "holy host of others standing around me" in Carolina on My Mind is a reference to the lads, a couple of whom did uncredited work on the song (the initial release, not the more familiar version from 1976). It's a matter of record that when Bob Dylan first met the Beatles, he introduced them to marijuana. You are free to let your mind wander in imagining what momentous development transpired as a result of Taylor hooking up with the Fab Four. The KassaNostra knows enough to steer clear of such debauchery.
James Taylor: With a Little Help from My Friends [live]
I wanted to include this version of Hello Goodbye by the Soulful Strings specifically as a bulwark against the innumerable classical/easy listeningBeatlestribute albumsin existence, just waiting around to be snatched up by the gullible, the ignorant, and the obsessive Beatles fan. (Not going to take a shot here at the redundancy of all three. . . oh wait, I just did.) Richard Evans was the in-house svengali at Cadet Records in the 1960s and 70s: an accomplished musician (played bass for Sun Ra and Ahmad Jamal), producer and arranger (Marlena Shaw, Dorothy Ashby, Ramsey Lewis, Richard "Groove" Holmes, Brother Jack McDuff, to name a few) - he formed the Strings in 1966, a time when whitebread cover LPs of hit pop tunes were ubiquitous. "Strings" is a bit of a misnomer, since they operated with an electric rhythm section and incorporated a variety of other instruments into their sound. But the group, bolstered by Evans' magnetic arrangements, flies high above the sea of easy listening pap, with a soul/funk dynamic that paints a musical picture that's both easily recognizable and intriguingly different. Listen here in the second verse/chorus, how the rhythm guitar, bass, flute, strings and vibes all dance around each other, seamlessly passing off the lead and then coming back to undergird the melody, and how all that suddenly gives way in the bridge to the groove of the lead guitar solo, which in turn gets reigned in by the strings when they come in with the familiar coda. It's all rather wonderful.
Soulful Strings: Hello Goodbye
We acknowledge the Lennon/McCartney songwriting team as something more than just a pop act - it's a template for the loftiest possibilities of pop music, and that's how it should be. But then we also should acknowledge that a really great Beatles rendition requires a performance that's up to the task of respecting the source material. Nobody ever expects magic from a high school Gilbert and Sullivan production; subsequently, while the ethos of rock dictates that any combo can and should muscle their way through any song, the fact remains that the Beatles are great in part because they transcended the limits of rock music to incorporate a pop sensibility that opened the door on countless sonic innovations. That's not to say that every attempt to cover the Beatles should realize a certain level of sophistication. But many, many such attempts - in every genre - fail because they willfully ignore the complexity of the music. And it's a rare and transcendent thing when someone like Evans comes along and completely gets it right.
Anyway. . .
You say you want a Revolution? You gonna call on a buncha snotty puss-puss basement-dwelling mushy pea and turnip fawningly polite sons of the motherland fugazi Howlin' Wolf parody dirty collar-wearin' tea-sippin' empire-lovin' nancy boys? Or are you gonna call on Nina Simone? There's the Beatles version of the song, and there's Simone's "cover" version, and only one of them is about getting your hands dirty. (And right now, you should all be thinking the same thing: it's about damn time the KassaNostra put some Nina freakin' Simone up on this site! I hear ya.)
Nina Simone: Revolution
Chubby Checker had a career-defining hit with The Twist back in 1960, and then spent the next fifteen years spiraling towards irrelevance. Luckily, when a guy hits it that big, somebody'll always pay him to make records. Also luckily, the further away Checker got from his moment in the sun, the more he seemed keen on pushing the musical envelope. His 1971 Chequered! LP is, if not an outright masterpiece, than one of the finest cultural oddities you'll ever listen to. He wasn't exactly there yet in 1969, but his cover of Back in the U.S.S.R. is still a fine effort. The decision to approach this song in complete over-the-top Vegas lounge act fashion was undeniably the correct choice. There are Superbowl halftime shows less choreographed than this production, but Checker's heart is clearly driving the performance, and the unabashed excess behind him is glorious. If the Beatles were less image-conscious, they would've cut this live, with a 30-piece band and two-hundred showgirls in the buff save for tastefully arranged babushkas; Chubby's version is the next best thing.
Chubby Checker: Back in the U.S.S.R.
To wrap this post up, I give you a 1969 BBC recording of Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, by Desmond Dekker (plus a brief segue into his own tune, Wise Man). As far as I know, this wasn't formally released until it appeared on a 2005 compilation CD. I'm guessing he's being backed by his longtime group The Aces - no info to confirm that, but the timing's right. There's nothing particularly special about this recording, but I think we can all agree that the coolness factor goes through the roof when you're able to cover the pop song the Beatles wrote specifically about you. No word on what his actual wife, Margaret, thought about this Molly floozy they set him up with. By the way, I know a lot of people hate this song, but it's the KassaNostra's favorite McCartney-penned tune.
Desmond Dekker: Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da/Wise Man
Okay - part 2 is in the books. Part 3 in a week. Until then, stop yer minds from wandering. . .
Sholem Aleichem, my rockin’ kinderlachen! It’s the KassaNostra, comin’ back atcha with the cream of the Tolland scene – the music that makes your head swim, your booty shake, and your conscience do a boom-chicka-boom! I trust everyone had a groovy summer – yours truly spent his nights spinning harmonious soul sounds as the in-house DJ at Junior's Restaurant in beautiful downtown Brooklyn!
What?
Oh. PSYCHE! Yeah, that totally didn't happen, the rumors to the contrary. But it sounded sooooooo good, I just had to see what it looked like in print. Actually, your KassaNostra was hard at work laying the groundwork for some very excellent forthcoming posts. Got lots to share with you guys, so let's get right into it.
In my last post before I closed down for the summer, I took a swipe at the Beatles and those who love their music.
(Hmmmm. . . the KassaNostra vs. the rest of the world. I like those odds!) But why make waves when you can make beautiful harmony? And so, what with numbers by the Fab Four permeating the slices, I thought about giving you guys some camp-related Beatles music to celebrate my grand re-opening. Beatles music being the greatest universal equalizer there is, it only stands to reason that we sing our fair share of it in Tolland. Think about it – go to a peace vigil, start singing Put My Name Down, and everyone else gives you some serious distance and the hairy eyeball. Anarchists? Separatist vegans? Father rapers? But break into All You Need Is Love, and everyone starts joining in like we was all on the same sing-down team. See? They really are more popular than Jesus.
Here's the thing: I could tell you that we sing Let It Be in camp, but would you really need me to follow-up with the actual tune? Wherever you are, reading this post right now, aren't there now at least 500 ways of immediately getting a copy of that song? Assuming that you somehow haven't already committed every cadence and tonal identifier of it to memory? You're thinking about it right now, aren't you? You're up to the part where Billy Preston comes in on the organ, right? Greatest universal equalizer. No joke.
Anyway, since what we do every time we sing Lennon/McCartney is perform a cover of the original, I thought it would be right and proper (and vastly more interesting) if I gave you some cover versions of the Beatles songs that have entered the Tolland canon over the years. So I made a list, pared it down to fifteen or so contenders, and then decided that not only did I not want to have to pick and choose between dynamite music, but that it would be way more cool if I gave you a Kinderland/Beatles tribute/extravaganza in three parts! Fifteen (maybe sixteen) tunes comin' atcha, all in the next three weeks.
But before we dive in, I should note that I'm using an extremely loose definition of what constitutes "Kinderland approved" in this case. Obviously, there are some songs that don't make for good singalong material, and so they're not widely performed in the Greater Tolland Area (though I'd kill to see Maddy tackle Tomorrow Never Knows). And while some of these are fairly obvious choices, I'll admit that some of them I'm a little sketchy on the whens and wheres. Feel free to register complaints in the comments section, for which my standard reply remains: start your own damn blog. The rest of you just rattle your jewelry.
First thing I got for ya'll is gonna make the purists howl. But the way I see it, this is way more than just a cover. Back in the day, DJ Jazzy Jeff was definitely Ringo to the johnpaulgeorge supernova that was his partner, Will Smith. I mean, you didn't even know he had a solo career, right? And yet years after the fact, he's still laying down beats (and frankly, proving just who had the superior musical chops in his old duo). His guest MC on this particular piece of sublimity is the indefatigable Biz Markie. That's right. . . it's an old school throwdown, and the Biz is most definitely up to the challenge. Which should come as no surprise – the Biz has that same manic energy that the Beatles did back when they were so cool they only wore black. If he showed up as a mad scientist in Help! or a train conductor in A Hard Day's Night, it wouldn't surprise you for a second.
DJ Jazzy Jeff feat. Biz Markie: $ Can't Buy Me Love
Speaking of Ringo's best-known malapropism, any Kinderland/Beatles tribute/extravaganza has got to include Gerry Tenney's homage to Liverpool's finest: Schvereh Togedike Nakht. During his stint as camp's music specialist, I remember Gerry explaining that in order to secure permission to record the song, he had to go through the reps of the guy who owned the rights to the Beatles' catalog at that time. My friends, let me go on record right here and now and declare that any song with a backstory that includes Gerry, the Beatles and Michael Jackson is an automatic fave of the KassaNostra. Performed with his then-band The Lost Tribe, with Gerry singing the lead himself (which I guess makes him the smart one). Definitely check out his blogsiteto see which song gets the yiddisher treatment next.
Gerry Tenney & The Lost Tribe: Schvereh Togedike Nakht
One thing I find when listening to non-Beatles play Beatles songs is that it never pays to try and sound like the Beatles. Everybody in the world already knows what every Beatles song sounds like. There are Yanamamo tribesmen in the Amazon that mimic John's Scouser twang when they sing Eight Days a Week. It sounds painfully obvious, but the trick, I think, is to make the sound your own – to feel comfortable working in the material (this goes doubly when considering the iconic nature of the Beatles' catalog). I think that's what I like so much about David Porter's take on Help! Porter was Isaac Hayes' longtime writing partner at Stax Records before he tried his hand at a solo recording career in the early 70s. With Help!, he strips the song clean of the urgency that runs through the original. When John Lennon sings it, it's a young man crying out for support; when Porter sings it, it's with the self-assurance that comes with maturity. He's not asking for help, he's celebrating the fact that he already knows and trusts them that got his back.
David Porter: Help!
Next up. . . I say "Dionne Warwick," you say "Psychic Friends." It's a sad, sad thing that Warwick's gonna be remembered for everything but her best work. Screw yer Beatles, man – the single best moment in 60s music might just be the breakdown in Walk On By. Her talent notwithstanding, Warwick benefited from an early relationship with the songwriting team of Hal David and Burt Bacharach. That in turn created a lot of access to top arrangers and sessions men. Plus her label, Scepter Records, recognized her as their showcase artist and completely feted her. It's the factory approach to hitmaking, but hey. . . when it works, it surely does deliver. There's so much to like about her cover of We Can Work It Out, starting with the maudlin intro that quickly surges into an effortless groove. I always thought the Beatles got this one wrong. It reads like a statement or an affirmation, but they run through it so tepidly – if dude ever actually sang it to you like that, you'd be giggling inside of a minute. Fortunately, Warwick gets it for what it is, and completely blows the doors off of it. For me, this take tops both the original and the better-known Stevie Wonder version.
Dionne Warwick: We Can Work It Out
Finally. . . it's Otis Redding. And he's singing Day Tripper. Do you really need to know anything else? Man, this is so unbelievably good, I can't believe the Stax/Volt guys didn't release this as a single.
Otis Redding: Day Tripper
Thus endeth part 1 – part 2 to follow next week. Welcome home, boys and girls. Insert your own "long and winding road" comment here.
Quick version for the uninitiated: Camp Kinderland is a progressive, secular Jewish summer camp located in Western Massachusetts. A key component of the camp's program is music, covering almost 200 years of musical genres: folk, traditional Yiddishkeit, civil rights era, labor movement, and the occasional Beatles tune. Sounds corny, but it's pretty amazing when done right. This blog is an attempt to capture some of Kinderland's musical tradition, mostly for the enjoyment of those who have participated in it before. But if that happens to not include you, please feel free to browse around, and definitely ask questions.
Despite all appearances to the contrary, this blog is not affiliated with Camp Kinderland.
Disclaimer
If you hear something you like, please do what is in your ability to support the artist behind the music. MP3s found here are posted for a limited time, and are meant for illustrative and previewing purposes only. If you are the creator or copyright holder of any material posted and object to its appearance on this blog, please email me and it will be removed forthwith.
