One-Hit Wonders

Sounds weird, I know. But camp’s got ’em too, just not the kind that VH1 specials are made of. Thank goodness! Truth be told, the KassaNostra really doesn’t like the whole “one-hit wonder” concept very much: it’s unfair to the artists, it’s unfair to the fans of the artists, it elevates sales as the determining factor in the making of a great song, and most of all, it’s just lazy. Hella-lazy. Show me a one-hit wonder, and I’ll show you the Rhino Records corporate marketing strategy.

The way I figure it though, an OHW K-Land style is a song that doesn’t turn up in the slices. It’s a song that maybe somebody sang once, and it caught on like gangbusters before eventually falling out of rotation. But that means that every one of our one-hit wonders has a story behind it, and that’s something the KassaNostra can get behind! So get comfy, kinderlachen, ’cause to tell this tale, we're going back a couple of decades.

In 1986, one of the teams representing at the Kinderland Olympics was New Zealand. Now, keep in mind that this was way before anybody knew how cool New Zealand actually was, what with the elves and orcs and the oscar-nominated girl-on-whale action (ahem. . . speaking of one-hit wonders), but what made the Tolland culture vultures sit up and take notice was a series of incidents involving nuclear weapons. Seems the Kiwi’s didn’t care for ’em, and weren’t afraid to say so. In 1984, New Zealand banned all nuclear vessels from entering its waters, as a protest against French nuclear testing in the South Pacific. Greenpeace ships had already been running interference out of Auckland, and this policy change had them poised to step up their efforts. In the summer of ’85, a group of French agents sabotaged the Greenpeace flagship Rainbow Warrior while it was moored in Auckland’s Waitemata Harbour. The resulting explosions sank the ship and killed one crewman. Long story short: an international scandal ensued, Greenpeace got a ton of favorable press, so did the test-ban issue, so did New Zealand, and Kinderland had itself a no-brainer of an Olympic team.

So. . . summer of ’86. Opening-night ceremonies. The New Zealand team (wearing green, natch), blows everyone else (you’ll pardon the pun) out of the water. Can’t really say why: partly because the immediacy of their cause made them compelling; partly because eco-issues weren’t so much in vogue at the time, and it was something relatively new to camp; partly because their cheers and costumes included a lot of sheep, which are always cool. They also closed with an absolute killer of a song, You Can’t Sink the Rainbow, that everybody immediately fell in love with. Trust me, my friends, this one easily makes the KassaNostra’s list of top-ten all-time Olympic presentations.

And yet, something happened between the first and last nights of those Olympic games. Because in that time, the Zealanders came to the startling conclusion that the anti-nukes stuff notwithstanding, their namesake wasn’t really all that team-worthy after all. To hear them tell it, the average Kiwi was nominally uninteresting at best (and criminal at worst, if one considers 300 years suppressing the indigenous Māori peoples). I don’t understand it myself, and lord knows I’ve been on teams with far less to recommend. Maybe they were just really overzealous. Maybe they just weren’t prepared for the inevitable comedown from their opening high. Or maybe they were just a bunch of wise-asses who saw this predicament as the perfect opportunity to sing Phil Ochs’ Love Me, I’m a Liberal. ’Cause that’s exactly what the clever bastards did. And they sang a rousing rendition of it, and everybody immediately fell in love with that too, and it quickly became a top request during music sessions, at least through the rest of the ’80s.

Here’s two takes on the song, the first being Phil’s original live version, off of the 1966 Elektra album Phil Ochs in Concert. And no, not even I can explain exactly how tears can run down someone’s spine. The KassaNostra loves Phil dearly, but freely admits that it’s kind of a stupid line. What I do know is that even my friends who don’t like folk music in general, or Phil Ochs music in particular, and who insist on comparing him (unfairly) to Dylan, and who generally make me want to smack them upside the head. . . even they think this is a righteous song. And they’re right about that, at least.

Phil Ochs: Love Me, I'm a Liberal [live]


The second version is an “updated” cover by Jello Biafra and Mojo Nixon (backed ably by the Toadliquors!), off their 1994 collaborative effort, Prairie Home Invasion. I say quote-updated-unquote because fifteen years later, references to grunge music, the LAPD, and Arsenio Hall make this almost as dated as the original. But it’s a rollicking version, and well worth a listen, and frankly, everyone should own this CD. Seriously, people. . . this is the album that Jello Biafra got his legs broken over. Do the guy a mitzvah and pick up a copy already.

Jello Biafra & Mojo Nixon: Love Me, I'm a Liberal

BONUS FEVER: Not many people release their debut album when they hit sixty, but I sure am glad Precious Bryant did. I know very little about this Georgia singer, but I do know that this is an excellent folksy/bluesy version of Fever, off her 2002 album Fool Me Good. I defy anyone to dance to it, but I also defy anyone to not totally groove on it. And really, you just know that anything by anyone with a name as fab as Precious has simply got to kick ass.

Precious Bryant: Fever


Two quick things, then I’m out. First, if you receivd an email update about this post, then you probably already know it’s the last unsolicited email you’ll be getting. The KassaNostra fancies himself both a lover and a fighter, but he is definitely no spammer. Of course, you’re all welcome to check out this blog at your leisure, whenever and however often makes you happy. But for my biggest fans who want to keep getting updates, send me a blank email with the word SUBSCRIBE in the subject line. That way the KassaNostra can stay in you dreams and in your in-box, boy howdy!

Second, earlier in this post, where I alluded to the song You Can’t Sink the Rainbow, perhaps some of you thought that was going to be the one-hit wonder the KassaNostra was talking about. Yeah, well, so did the KassaNostra. But I’ve been totally stymied in my attempts to locate it, and now I really, really want a copy of it. If anyone out there in alumni-land has any info, no matter how seemingly insignificant, definitely email me or drop a line in the comments. Whosoever leads me to the song shall be handsomely rewarded. My kingdom for the rainbow!

Peace & Vinyl,
The KassaNostra

CODA: My crack research staff has admonished me for not including more info about the Rainbow Warrior. Bad KassaNostra! Bad!

Stapled

Hey gang. I know you're all itching to get to the tunes (and I've got a killer set coming up for y'all), but we gotta take care of some business first.

A lot of you have been writing in asking me to reveal my secret identity. Respectfully, that's not gonna happen. Not right now, anyway. I could give you a bunch of reasons, but what it boils down to is this: when I'm writing about music on this blog, I like being the KassaNostra.

One of the absolutely greatest things about music -- singing it, performing it, listening to it, talking about

it -- is how easily it lets anybody redefine themselves. When you wear your favorite band's t-shirt, or break into paroxysmal air-guitar gyrations, or purchase a CD, or give yourself a cool-sounding punk name (whether you're in a band or not), or get excited about an upcoming show, or spontaneously start singing to your boyfriend, or girlfriend, or spouse, or child, or pet. . . when you do any of that, plus a million other music-related actions, you become something bigger than yourself that lots of other people can suddenly relate to. In every instance, how far anyone chooses to run with that transcendent version of themselves is a pretty personal decision. For me, in this particular moment, with this particular project, this is what clicked.

I'm sure at some point, as this blog evolves, that perspective will change and I'll see fit to come out from behind the curtain. Meanwhile, if you want to learn more about me, asking me who I really am is definitely the wrong question. What you should be asking is, "Hey KassaNostra, who has better cover versions, Bob Dylan or the Beatles?" Or, "By the way KassaNostra, what's your position on disco?" Or, "KassaNostra, what are your top-five songs named for celebrities?" Or, "Hey KassaNostra -- how can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?"

Everyone got it? Alright. . . let's get down to it.

I know we're probably never going to name a camp building after a gospel group, but just in case the bigwigs at 16 Court Street ever take the idea under consideration, I'm getting my campaign started right now to have that group be the Staple Singers. I defy anyone to name me another band with the versatility -- let alone the work ethic -- to move so smoothly between chart-topping hits (I'll Take You There, Respect Yourself, Let's Do It Again), civil rights burners (Freedom Highway, Long Walk to D.C.), and the occasional killer cover (For What It's Worth, Slippery People), all while staying true to their spiritual roots (Deliver Me, City in the Sky)? Oh yeah, and they sound un-freakin'-believable on just about everything they sing.

But Mavis Staples is clearly not ready to start resting on her laurels. (Maybe she's pushing for the dining room?) In the past two years she's released two fantastic albums, with more than a few K-Land classics spread throughout. 2007's "We'll Never Turn Back" is a collection of civil rights anthems, sung by a woman whose first-hand experiences on the movement's front lines inform every note. (BTW, that's Ry Cooder on guitar, and behind the boards.) Lots to choose from here, so I'm going with We Shall Not Be Moved and the title track. We'll Never Turn Back (a.k.a. We've Been 'Buked) is not a song in heavy rotation in Tolland, but seems to get performed every few years via a cultural event, in all its harmonic glory. I like that -- it's already a singularly beautiful song, and keeping it under wraps for special occasions seems to add to its aura.

The other album is "Live: Hope at The Hideout," recorded last June at that renowned Chicago club. This is a more stripped-down approach, but Mavis is in top form, and the contrasting sound makes this a perfect companion to "We'll Never Turn Back." From this disc, I chose This Little Light, which apparently has a lot more words than we've been singing all these years.

Mavis Staples: We Shall Not Be Moved

Mavis Staples: We'll Never Turn Back

Mavis Staples: This Little Light [live]

BONUS FEVER: I haven't forgotten my promise from the last post for more Fever covers, so here's Dean Carter, from 1965, on his own Milky Way label. Carter eventually gave up the rock 'n' roll lifestyle to sing gospel, so I figured this was a good pick to follow Mavis Staples in a full-circle, karmic closure kind of way. It's sort-of a rockabilly-meets-garage hybrid sound. The two or three Mojo Nixon fans out there will surely recognize the influence. I could go on at length about this version, but truthfully, words can't do justice in describing the sheer weirdness of this track. So quit yer readin' already and start listening!

Dean Carter: Fever

Peace & Vinyl,

The KassaNostra

Dance Dance Revolution, pt. 1

Guess what, boytshiks and girltshiks. . . the KassaNostra's got the FEVER!!!

As all my adoring fans know, I'm wild for the folk dance. I may not know all the steps to Shostoyka, and, uh. . . I probably can't spell it correctly either. Oh yeah -- and I always confuse it with that other dance. The other really hard one. Nonetheless! When that crazy music comes on, I'm doing a boogie-woogie in my head that'd knock yer socks off. (No doubt to be later recovered by the Camp Mom.)

Let's talk for a sec about the dances we do at Kinderland that aren't traditional folk dances. Not counting stuff like the Alley Cat and Popcorn, I hear six killer tunes on the K-Land countdown that fit the bill: Snoopy, Pata Pata, Salty Dog Rag, Montego Bay, Sweet Gypsy Rose and Fever. Now some of these are well known dances outside of camp. Salty Dog Rag, first released in 1952, became a national square dance hit when it was re-released in 1964 to promote Red Foley's return to the Grand Ole Opry. And as everybody knows, Pata Pata is the name of a dance we do down Johannesburg way. Others. . . well, you gotta wonder if a couple of counselors didn't just make them up to fill an open evening activity slot. (Y'know -- to placate the rioting masses of dissatisfied folk dance enthusiasts clamoring for new material.) Tommy James cut Draggin' the Line in 1971, but I've never seen it referred to as Snoopy anywhere outside of Tolland.

Regardless of where they come from, what I want to know is this: why those six songs? I mean, I love 'em all, and rest assured, this isn't a call to swap them out of rotation. But there are hundreds of other pop and r&b songs out there that have corresponding dance moves. So who decided that those six had crossover potential on the folk dance charts? And if some of those steps did originate on a slow night in the Paul Robeson playhouse, then I really want to know more, 'cause those are some seriously trippy choices. Anyone out there have answers, or related questions, or speculations about what they're dancing to in some parallel universe Kinderland, send them on in. Meanwhile, let's talk about Fever.

First of all, the genius who decided we should sway-sway-step-behind-step to Little Willie John's original 1956 single, rather than one of the 400+ cover versions that followed, gets my vote for sainthood. John didn't write Fever, but he sings it like he owns it, and his backup band does their damn best to stay out of his way. Literally. This song personifies the "empty space" theory of r&b -- instead of a steady barrage of music, the band lays down a bare-bones track that gives the vocals plenty of room to pivot and glide wherever John decides to take them. Add to that a few key idiosyncrasies that keep popping up: the on the beat/off the beat/on the beat piano chords in the opening bars; the backup vocals restricted to abrupt bursts on the third line of every chorus; the absence of a guitar until the last verse, when it subtly picks up the rhythm, then disappears again until that final, resonating chord that just hangs in the air.

Little Willie John: Fever

Pure. Heaven.

And yes, the man said 400+ cover versions. A few of those I really dig and want to play for you, but if I gave you five or six versions of any song in one shot, you'd grow irrevocably bored of it pretty quickly. And if there's one thing the KassaNostra can't abide by, it's turning anyone off to any music, for any reason. So instead, I'll try to include some bonus Fevers over the next few posts. Here's one to hold you for now: Patti Drew, off her 1969 album "I've Been Here All the Time." Everything I said above, about empty space and quirky moments? Well, I like Drew's take for all the opposite reasons. This is a full-on soul extravaganza with all the trimmings. Hyperactive bass line? Check. Funky organ? Check. Dynamite horn section? Check. It sounds like they just threw in as much as they thought they could get away with. You can almost imagine the producer stopping the session in the middle of everything and racing out on an inspired whim to find someone to play vibes. If they only had a string section coming in on that third verse, it'd be perfect. But I'll take it as is, no worries.

Patti Drew: Fever

Now. . . anybody else missing their socks?

Peace & Vinyl,

The KassaNostra