No te enamores nunca de aquel marinero bengalí Sin gamulán
Como debo andar
En la cama o en el suelo
Ir a más
Tristeza de la ciudad
Creo que es un sueño más
Levantando temperatura
Guindilla ardiente
Te vas rica
Se me olvidó que te olvidé
¡Aquí!
No te enamores nunca de aquel marinero bengalí
Even if the gang of the pH quartet are supporting Peter, he wanted this album to be a very much personal matter (at least he said so).
Little Richard had been making records for four years before he rolled into Cosimo Matassa's J&M Studio in New Orleans and cut the epochal "Tutti Frutti" in the fall of 1955, but everything else he'd done -- and much of what others had recorded -- faded into insignificance when Richard wailed "A wop bop a loo mop a lomp bomp bomp" and kicked off one of the first great wailers in rock history. In retrospect, Little Richard's style doesn't seem so strikingly innovative as captured in 1956's Here's Little Richard -- his boogie-woogie piano stylings weren't all that different from what Fats Domino has been laying down since 1949, and his band pumped out the New Orleans backbeat that would define the Crescent City's R&B for the next two decades, albeit with precision and plenty of groove. But what set Richard apart was his willingness to ramp up the tempos and turn the outrage meter up to ten; "Tutti Frutti," "Rip It Up" and "Jenny Jenny" still sound outrageous a half-century after they were waxed, and it's difficult but intriguing to imagine how people must have reacted to Little Richard at a time when African-American performers were expected to be polite and the notion of a gay man venturing out of the closet simply didn't exist (Richard's songs were thoroughly heterosexual on the surface, but the nudge and wink of "Tutti Frutti" and "Baby" is faint but visible, and his bop threads, mile-high process and eye makeup clearly categorized him as someone "different"). These 12 tunes may not represent the alpha and omega of Little Richard's best music, but every song is a classic and unlike many of his peers, time has refused to render this first album quaint -- Richard's grainy scream remains one of the great sounds in rock & roll history, and the thunder of his piano and the frantic wail of the band is still the glorious call of a Friday night with pay in the pocket and trouble in mind. Brilliant stuff.
In the jazz world, tribute albums are inescapable. Every week, jazz artists are recording tributes to Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Cole Porter, or someone else they admire. But in rock, they aren't as plentiful -- for every Bob Dylan, Doors, or Rolling Stones tribute that gets recorded, there are a lot more Ellington or George Gershwin tributes coming from the jazz world. One of rock's more tribute-minded labels is Cleopatra, which has paid homage to countless rockers. As a rule, Cleopatra's tribute albums are interesting -- and this 2002 release (which finds 12 different artists providing Tool covers) is no exception. Even if A Tribute to Tool is mildly uneven; it has more ups than downs and offers a lot of intriguing takes on the headbangers' songs. The best covers are the ones that bring something new or different to a familiar song; operating on that premise, the artists on this CD acknowledge Tool on their own terms instead of slavishly emulating the band. While Tool's forte is alternative metal, A Tribute to Tool is full of industrial, darkwave, and goth rock interpretations of its songs. Not everything on the CD works, but most of the time, A Tribute to Tool hits its mark. Mists of Avalon successfully gives "Prison Sex" a goth makeover, while an industrial outlook works well for Translation Collapse on "Reflection," Beauty on "Disgustipated," and Razed in Black on "Part of Me." One of the best tracks is the Electric Hellfire Club's "Opiate" makeover; Hellfire's campy, over-the-top sense of fun is quite a contrast to Tool's artsy leanings. Do those with only a casual interest in Tool need to hear 12 Tool covers? Probably not. But Tool's hardcore fans will find this CD meaningful if they also have an appetite for industrial, darkwave, and goth rock.
In 1984, a 45-year-old Tina Turner made one of the most amazing comebacks in the history of American popular music. A few years earlier, it was hard to imagine the veteran soul/rock belter reinventing herself and returning to the top of the pop charts, but she did exactly that with the outstanding Private Dancer. And Turner did so without sacrificing her musical integrity. To be sure, this pop/rock/R&B pearl is decidedly slicker than such raw, earthy, hard-edged Ike & Tina classics as "Proud Mary," "Sexy Ida," and "I Wanna Take You Higher." But she still has a tough, throaty, passionate delivery that serves her beautifully on everything from the melancholy, reggae-influenced "What's Love Got to Do With It" to the gutsy "Better Be Good to Me" to heartfelt remakes of the Beatles' "Help," Al Green's "Let's Stay Together," and David Bowie's "1984." A reflection on the emptiness of a stripper's life, the dusky title song is as poignant as it is depressing. Without question, this was Turner's finest hour as a solo artist.
Unico disco solista editado en Argentina por Miguel Abuelo en 1984 en paralelo a la grabación del disco de Los Abuelos De La Nada "Himno De Mi Corazón".
A one-time event stemming from an offer to percussionist Guy Evans to do anything he wanted at the Union Chapel in London. An idea to collaborate with Peter Hammill on a variety of semi- improvisational material partly built on samples of Hammill's music soon expanded to incorporate more traditional performance ideas as well as connections to Evans' own colleagues in the Echo City troupe. By the time the planning stage was over, Hammill and Evans had decided to bring in members of Echo City, regular Hammill collaborator Stuart Gordon, drummer Manny Elias, and, to cap things off, longtime Van Der Graaf members Hugh Banton (who had retired to a life of organ-building) and David Jackson, who not only turned up with sax and flute in hand, but with his Soundbeam rig as well.
When the Kadane brothers -- Matt and Bubba -- disbanded Bedhead, it was at the height of that band's creativity and excellence. Wherever they went, well-deserved critical acclaim seemed to follow, and for good reason: Their music was intricate, touching, and emotional to a degree few bands ever reach. Bedhead's final album, Transaction de Novo was particularly affecting. The New Year is led (and all its songs are written) by the Kadane brothers, who were apparently less taking a break from each other than from the project they had created. The New Year's debut album, Newness Ends, comes after the band had played only a handful of shows, and while it has obvious similarities to Bedhead, the reason for the name change is also apparent. The most blatant difference is the tempos on Newness Ends. Whereas Bedhead records rarely made it past a crawl, these new songs take a similar songwriting approach and hit the gas a bit. The first track, "Half a Day," announces the difference with a bouncing rhythm, something heretofore not seen by the Kadanes. The true test of Newness Ends' greatness, though, is whether it would stand on its own as a debut album by a group of unknowns, without having to live up -- or down -- to die-hard fans' expectations. Clearly it does, blending the brilliant writing and playing of these two slow rock pioneers' past an present. It's a step sideways into amazing, only partially discovered territory.
1-1 Coph Nia – The Oath