Reviews from the Pages of buhdge: The Association’s Waterbeds in Trinidad (1972)

The Association's Waterbeds in Trinidad

(Originally published on the buhdge website in 2006)

Unfairly categorized as a singles band, the Association did not, as some would have you believe, make bad albums. They also did not become a less-interesting aggregation in the band’s later recording years, as this lone Columbia album proves.

Released a year after the group’s final Warner Brothers release, the eclectic Stop Your Motor, Waterbeds in Trinidad is a solid mix of originals and covers that is as good as any of their eight studio releases (a ninth, double-live set recorded at the University of Utah, was released in 1970). From Terry Kirkman’s sweet midtempo confessional “After the Fall” and the Larry Ramos co-penned paean to a lost love, “Indian Wells Woman,” to a muscular, jazzy cover of Carole King and Gerry Goffin’s “Snow Queen,” Waterbeds soars. But the album’s fate was foretold: it became the group’s last release until an embarrassing 1995 collection featuring only two original members, Russ Giguere and Ramos, that managed to single-handedly crush memories of the original group–at least for those unlucky listeners who heard it.

Waterbeds in Trinidad was, like most of the Association’s later albums, out of step with the then-current musical times. The group dared to be true to themselves, never succumbing to market pressure and preferring to follow their own muse. They even turned down the chance to record Jimmy Webb’s “MacArthur Park.”

The Association’s stance never varied: Their original songs, and the songs they chose to cover, were fully-realized vocal harmony showcases that emphasized melody above all else. Although the variously six-and-seven man band got a bit heavy on occasion (“heavy” being a relative term), they pretty much stuck to soft pop, providing the template for other groups that followed them into the seventies. Certainly, the Carpenters, whose first album was released in 1969, wouldn’t have been the Carpenters if the Association hadn’t set the earlier standard.

That standard lay at the foundation of Waterbed’s 10 tracks. The well-chosen covers, particularly John Sebastian’s classic “Darling Be Home Soon,” given an emotional reading here by Jim Yester and deep background vocal support, are tremendous examples of the exquisite taste exhibited by the group. The group’s originals are equally fine, even the jazzy, 5th Dimension-esque throwaway “Kicking the Gong Around,” whose many wordless vocal parts sound like they were a blast to wax.

The album closer, John Stewart’s touching ballad “Little Road and a Stone to Roll,” remains a particularly eerie listening experience given that the group’s bassist, Brian Cole, sings it (Cole later died of a drug overdose). It is hard not to get a lump in the throat when Cole sings “Everybody needs a fire inside/Everybody needs a dream to ride/Everybody with a growing soul/Needs a stone to roll.” The song’s reference to a Carole King tune as something that everyone needs always results in a tear or two.

The vocal arrangement on “Little Road and a Stone to Roll” is perhaps closest to the most classic moments the Association achieved during their career. The gentle, soaring harmonies seep into your brain and give you a little chill at every turn, not unlike the bulk of the group’s output.

After a couple of subsequent singles on RCA and Elektra and a mostly disappointing oldies collection released by, of all companies, Radio Shack, the group called it a day, although they did reform in the early 1980s, even appearing on TV’s The Mike Douglas Entertainment Hour, during which they performed “Windy,” “Cherish,” “Along Comes Mary,” and a terrific, still unreleased song entitled “Back Seat of Heaven.” What’s more, the group performed totally live, proving themselves to be a solid band that hardly needed the help of seasoned session musicians who played the parts on their early albums.

This 2006 release corrects the omission of bonus tracks on the 2002 Japanese issue, although most of the added sides are no great shakes; other than the single version of “Kicking the Gong Around,” which runs significantly faster (and thus shorter) than its album counterpart, the other single versions on offer don’t sound very different. Fortunately, the great version of Albert Hammond and Mike Hazelwood’s “Names, Tags, Numbers and Labels,” released on 45 only, is included. The sound overall is top-notch. Housed in a mini-LP-style cardboard sleeve, the CD is a bit pricey, but worth every penny.

What is little known is that the Association recorded a number of new songs, including the aforementioned “Back Seat of Heaven,” after reforming in the early 1980s. Hopefully those songs will one day be released. And hopefully, one day, the Association will get the respect they deserve. Certainly the Japanese CD reissues of the band’s albums, which now all contain bonus tracks, and the ongoing Collector’s Choice reissue program (which, sadly, does not offer bonuses and, to these ears, sound at least slightly inferior to their Japanese counterparts) will continue to keep this truly original musical legacy alive.

Alan Haber
June 10, 2006


Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber's Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes
Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber’s Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes

Reviews from the Pages of buhdge: Postcards from the Boys by Ringo Starr

(Ringo Starr’s wonderful book, Postcards from the Boys, published in 2004 by Chronicle Books, is no longer in print. It is available, however, from various marketplace sellers on Amazon.)

Ringo Starr's Postcards from the Boys
Ringo Starr’s Postcards from the Boys

Ringo Starr | Postcards from the Boys | Chronicle Books (2004)

It’s hard, these days, to get excited about a new Beatles book. I mean, really…what can possibly be said about the world’s greatest band that hasn’t already been said? Nevertheless, every so often, someone comes up with a new approach. Take, for example, Andy Babuik, whose fab 2002 tome, “Beatles Gear,” is wholly original, and Bruce Spizer, whose scholarly looks at the Fabs’ Vee-Jay, Capitol and Apple releases, and in-depth breakdown of the group’s arrival in America, are must-haves.

For another example, take Ringo Starr’s delightful slice of life, Postcards from the Boys, just published by Chronicle Books in a gorgeous, affordable hardcover edition (a limited-edition, much more expensive version was published earlier this year by the venerable Genesis Publications in England). Postcards depicts the fronts and backs of 51 postcards sent over the years to Richard Starkey, M.B.E. by John, Paul, and George. It is wholly unlike any other Beatles book ever published, in that it focuses not on the music, but on the music of life.

Each postcard is accompanied by a caption from Ringo that either directly comments on the inscription or the picture, or recounts an anecdote that was suggested by them. Take a card sent by John, the front of which shows a hairy flute player that resembles Lennon, and a woman, who looks like Yoko, nestled in a tree. “I’ll name that flute player in two notes,” writes Starr. Or take a card, sent by Paul and Linda McCartney and family, from the Caribbean, on the back of which Paul has drawn a boat sailing the seas. “Love from the Macs,” says the inscription. Ringo writes, “I like tropical islands. I love the Caribbean. I’m not excited when you have to put a big overcoat on.” Warm, funny and wonderful.

Then there is the lovely card sent to Ringo by Paul after the White Album, after Ringo had left the group because he couldn’t take the fighting. The story about Ringo coming back to find the studio dressed to the nines in flowers, flowers, flowers is legendary and cool, but the message scrawled by McCartney on the back of the card is even better: “You are the greatest drummer in the world. Really.” (The front of the card shows a guardsman at Windsor Castle, wearing a military drum around his neck.)

You won’t find any recording secrets here, and there’s no dirt to be had, no Jerry Springer moments at all. What you will find are 112 pages that provide a window into the heart of one of the world’s most famous drummers, who just happened to be in a band called the Beatles. A splendid time is guaranteed for all (and dig that holographic thingee on the cover!). This is really fab.

Alan Haber
September 19, 2004

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Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber’s Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes

Reviews from the Pages of buhdge: Lewis Lapham’s book about Rishikesh, With the Beatles

(The following review of Lewis Lapham’s wonderful book on the Beatles’ journey to Rishikesh to study and meet with the Maharishi first appeared on the old buhdge website. It appears here on the Pure Pop Radio website with but a few tiny changes, and the notation that the book is no longer in print. It is, however, available as a download for the Kindle. With the Beatles is highly recommended.)

Lewis Lapham's wonderful book, With the Beatles, is available as a download for the Kindle.
Lewis Lapham’s wonderful book, With the Beatles, is available as a download for the Kindle.

Lewis Lapham | With the Beatles | Kindle version (2014)

You can hardly pass through the music section of your favorite bookstore without perusing the latest range of offerings concerning the Beatles. I know this, because I’ve seen you. You may think nobody’s watching, but we are.

And for good reason. The latest crop of Fab-centric missives is actually pretty good. Lewis Lapham’s With the Beatles is a shining example–a quick, highly entertaining read that delivers the goods as well as any book twice its physical size (approximately 5″ x 6 1/2″) and three or four times its length (147 pages, with the text starting on page 33 after a sweet selection of photos lensed during the Beatles’ stay in Rishikesh).

Ah, Rishikesh… the mecca for enlightenment within which the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi sought to raise consciousness and the light from within. The Beatles, in February 1968, whisked off to the Maharishi’s camp to practice Transcendental Meditation (TM) and commune with nature. While there, the Fabs studied with the Maharishi and wrote the songs that were to become The Beatles, or, more famously, the White Album. Past the flies, the oppressive heat, the less-than-comfy living quarters, and the less-than-appetizing food, at least the Mop Tops got an album out of their time in India.

Which is to say that the reality of the Beatles’ time in Rishikesh turned out to be less than advertised. Ringo thought he could assume the Lotus position just as well back home, a point Lapham makes in his fine book that details his coverage, for the Saturday Evening Post, of TM and the Beatles’ attraction to it.

Lapham, now editor-in-chief of Harper’s Magazine, covers his brush with the Maharishi and TM from his stateside investigation of the practice to his time in Rishikesh and his trip home. Throughout, he maintains a healthy air of skepticism about the whole enterprise, delineating, with a reporter’s keen eye (and a welcome sense of humor), observations that elevate his story above mere reportage, telling about the woman staying at the Maharishi’s camp who wanted hot water at lunch so she could pour it in some Sanka coffee, the Maharishi’s inner circle and, of course, the Beatles themselves.

About the flies, Lapham writes that Maureen Starkey “hated” them “to the point that if there was only one fly in the room she would know exactly where it was, how it got there, and why it must be destroyed.” When they talked to the Maharishi about the flies, he told them “that for people traveling in the realm of pure consciousness, flies no longer matter very much. ‘Yes,’ Ringo said, ‘but that doesn’t zap the flies, does it?'”

Ringo’s take on things was only fair, as he had gone to study with the Maharishi because it was George’s thing, and the Beatles were a group that supported each other… at least until the flies became the Starr thing.

Mike Love also made the trip to India, as did actress Mia Farrow and her sister Prudence, among other notables, but the other Beach Boys stayed home. Interviewing the group prior to heading off to Rishikesh, Lapham discovered that Brian Wilson’s mother “had scheduled her own initiation for the next week; his father was considering a trip to India. ‘If my dad goes to India,’ he said, ‘I’ll know that the Maharishi has done his job.'” Murry Wilson never made the pilgrimage.

In the end, at least one of the Beatles became disillusioned with the Maharishi; there were rumors that the guru had sampled the pleasures of the flesh with Mia Farrow’s sister, Prudence, prompting John Lennon to write “Sexy Sadie,” in which he hardly minced words about his feelings for the Maharishi, reducing the guru to a mere charlatan or a feeble con artist, take your pick.

Upon arriving in New Delhi, Lapham hired a taxi to take him to Rishikesh. The driver, in star struck fashion, immediately understood where the writer wanted to go. Lapham: “‘Yes, good,’ he said. ‘We go Beatles.'” With that information in hand, the writer could have chucked the trip to Rishikesh and gone home an enlightened man, leaving the flies to swarm around the inner light.

Alan Haber
April 23, 2006


Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber's Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes
Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber’s Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes

Reviews from the Pages of buhdge: Andrew Gold’s Asylum Albums

...from the pages of buhdge
…from the pages of buhdge

Here’s another review from days gone by–February 7, 2005, to be exact, from the pages of buhdge. This is basically as first published. I resisted the temptation to excise a line or two, because I prefer to look at Andrew Gold’s music as an eternally living, breathing thing…

Andrew Gold | Andrew Gold | Collector’s Choice Music (2005)

My friend Rob used to do a show on our college radio station (FM, not carrier current, by the way). He would call me up in my dorm room, knowing I was listening, and tell me about some new album he was particularly taken with. Then, after he got off the air, he’d haul his copy of that album, and often others, up to my room and we’d listen to them. He was just about always right, bringing those albums to me; once, he even offered to reimburse me for a Roy Wood album if I didn’t like it (it was Boulders, and I did and he didn’t have to pay me back). This time around, he was touting the debut album by one Andrew Gold, with whom I was not familiar. “Wait ’till you hear this,” he said, ever so passionately, calling me from the studio.

Andrew Gold
Andrew Gold

I couldn’t wait. As I said, Rob was almost always right about these things; we would spend hours in his room at his house, him playing me record after record, seeing what I liked, what I didn’t, trying to get me to like things he liked and I didn’t, like Zappa’s We’re Only In It for the Money (well, I came to appreciate it eventually). I discovered a lot of cool stuff in that room, stuffed to the gills as it was with musical treasures (I first heard the promo version of “Penny Lane” there–the one with the trumpet ending, a revelation to be sure).

“What is it like?”, I asked Rob on the phone. “What does Andrew Gold sound like?” (Even then, I was playing the “Who Does it Sound Like?” game.) “You’ll like it,” he emphasized, and with that, resting the tone arm on one of the turntables at the station after playing his last record of the night , he put a couple of albums in his bag and took the long walk from the station to my dorm room. “Wait ’till you hear this,” he said, and, my stereo fired up, he set the needle down onto the vinyl to do its business.

I was mesmerized. Gold’s music spoke to me. All the earmarks of the type of music I liked were there, soaking through me: melody, harmony, hooks with superpowers, and that cover shot, the artist performing magic, white balls jumping about in the air around him, his left hand open at the bottom right, ready for the balls to come home. Now that I know, thanks to Gold’s superb liner notes for the 2005 reissue of Andrew Gold (in fact, all four of Gold’s 1970’s Asylum albums have been reissued by Collectors’ Choice Music), that the hand was pasted in from another picture, I’m really convinced there was some kind of magic going on.

I remain convinced 29 years later, remembering that evening so long ago, thankful for my introduction to Andrew Gold from a like-minded friend. Andrew Gold remains a magical release for me, full of surprise and wonder. From the gorgeous opener “That’s Why I Love You,” with its intoxicating melody and glorious harmonies, and the country-rock of the supremely catchy “Heartaches in Heartaches,” to the emotion-filled ballad “Ten Years Behind Me” and the funky bass of the wild and wooly “Hang My Picture Straight,” Andrew Gold is a strong first album, a collection of songs that will last through time.

Andrew Gold's What's Wrong With this Picture
Andrew Gold’s What’s Wrong With this Picture

A year later, when Gold’s second solo album, What’s Wrong With this Picture, was released, I was working at the college radio station too, doing a Saturday afternoon show and playing lots of the kind of stuff I still play today on Pure Pop Radio. The release of this album was accompanied by a contest that asked people to identify the most things “wrong” with the album cover for some prize or other. As part of Gold’s liner notes–as detailed, lengthy and informative as those for his debut–the artist put on his detective hat and laid out 32 items that he had identified. He called this his “official” list, and noted that “You can still win a date with me, but I’ll have to ask my girlfriend.”

The only song from Andrew Gold that charted was “That’s Why I Love You,” which only managed to rise to number 68 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. The big song from What’s Wrong With this Picture was a different matter entirely: “Lonely Boy” was a top 10 hit; it made it all the way to number seven and stayed on the chart for 21 weeks. It should have been a number one, though; it’s a textbook example of how to write a hit song. It builds quite nicely throughout; it’s centered around a strong vocal; has a great, hooky chorus; and ends with a hearty, satisfying, dramatic ending.

The rest of the album wasn’t so bad, either. Buddy Holly’s “Learning the Game,” re-imagined as a plaintive country ballad complete with mandolin, almost becomes a completely different song, completely soulful. “One of Them is Me,” another one of Gold’s signature ballads, shines with deep emotion, as does his “Firefly,” on which he plays all of the instruments.

Andrew Gold's All This and Heaven Too
Andrew Gold’s All This and Heaven Too

Two years went by before Gold’s next album was released. All This and Heaven Too contains the song “Thank You for Being a Friend,” which became the theme of TV’s The Golden Girls. Amazingly, however, even with all of that exposure, and 15 weeks on the Billboard Hot 100, the song only managed to place as high as number 25 on the charts.

In the liner notes to the reissue of Whirlwind, Gold says that All This and Heaven Too got “a fair amount of bad reviews.” This amazes me, as I believe this album to be the best of the ’70s Asylum releases. From the opening, pumping piano of the pure pop song “How Can This Be Love” to the campfire-like singalong, hooky “Never Let Her Slip Away,” to the jazzy, Brazilian-influenced “Genevieve,” this is one classic album.

But the backlash against the softer side of pop got to Gold, prompting him to show that he could rock out with the best of them. Enter Whirlwind, 1980’s proof of the I-can-rock-out-too pudding. A quick look at the lineup of instruments on the songs told the tale: basically guitar, bass and drums. Some keyboards, and only nine songs. No pop-oriented cover shot; instead, a closeup photo of a deep-in-thought Gold, a microphone pointing at his right cheek, was used. This was clearly going to be a different direction for the soft-popper.

Andrew Gold's Whirlwind
Andrew Gold’s Whirlwind

At the time, listening to Whirlwind seemed to back up the “it’s heavier” theory. It is only so many years later, with a healthy dose of hindsight, that it becomes clear that the album really isn’t all that different than Gold’s others; in fact, the opener, “Kiss this One Goodbye,” although heavier than Gold’s usual fare, has a poppy chorus and harmonies. “Sooner or Later” is essentially business-as-was-usual, just dressed up in a bit of a harder edge. “Leave Her Alone” similarly just sounds a bit different. “Nine to Five”‘s light reggae verses lead into poppy choruses, sounding a little like Eric Stewart’s reggae-influenced songs for 10cc. And the album closer, “Make Up Your Mind,” takes its cue from the Paul McCartney playbook as a dash of “Oh Darling!” mixes nicely with other Beatle nods, including a faux George Harrison slide solo. And then there are those trademark Gold harmonies.

It’s hard, in retrospect, to understand what all the fuss was about. The focus should, instead, have been on Whirlwind’s songs, all top notch, and the playing by Gold, drummer Michael Botts, and bassist Bryan Garafolo. Gold says in his liner notes that he “just coasted a bit” post-Whirlwind. He did wind up being the musical guest on the last Saturday Night Live show with the original cast, so coasting seems a bit of an overstatement.

One thing these reissues, lovingly produced by Gold and Cheryl Pawelski, shows is that Gold’s Asylum period stands up well. In fact, these albums remain classics from a classic artist. Each reissue sounds like it was recorded yesterday, with particular gains in separation, crispness, bottom end, and volume over the Japanese reissues that fans have had to make due with for years. The copious liner notes by Gold are in-depth and welcome, full of great stories and honest insight. And each album is stocked with fun bonus tracks–alternate versions, outtakes, jams, live cuts, and the like. These are the best reissues ever put out by Collectors’ Choice Music, outdoing most major label reissues by miles with the care and attention to detail that is absolutely evident.

The best thing about Gold’s Asylum years is that the complete story has yet to be told; Gold continues to release new albums, and has just announced very ambitious release plans for the coming year and beyond, including a covers record, a sequel to The Fraternal Order of the All, and much more. This is great news for fans, and new chances for people unaware of Gold’s continuing output to pick up on the latest creations of one of our greatest musical artists.

Looking back to that day when I was still in college, being exposed to new artists almost on a daily basis, having my first encounter with the music of Andrew Gold, I realize how lucky I am to have experienced his records as a first-generation fan. I’ve been listening to Gold’s music for 29 years, and I await his next release, my ears ready to take in his next glorious sounds.

Alan Haber
February 7, 2005

Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber's Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes
Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber’s Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes

Reviews from the Pages of buhdge: Pugwash’s Eleven Modern Antiquities

...from the pages of buhdge
…from the pages of buhdge

Back in the mid 2000’s, we started a popular website called buhdge. buhdge, with an accent on the “h,” was designed to support the weekly Pure Pop Radio Show on WEBR in Fairfax, Virginia, and for many years, it did. For various reasons, however, it lay dormant for periods of time–some short, some regrettably long, and in March 2012, it ceased to be updated at all. It sorta, kinda morphed into a dormant, online catalog of melodic pop music reviews, audio interviews and articles. After nearly two years of inactivity, it will be going away forever, having done its time entertaining at least millions.

Because the content on buhdge is worthy of a second, or even a third, look, we have decided to post some of the best of the reviews and such here. The audio interviews will be ported over to our PodOMatic podcast page. This has, in fact, begun and will continue throughout this year.

So, here’s the first of a goodly number of reviews that first appeared on buhdge. First up: our review of Pugwash’s 2008 album, Eleven Modern Antiquities, as fine a record as Thomas Walsh and company have put out. Enjoy the review, and add the album to your collection if, for some odd reason, it doesn’t already claim pride of place.

Pugwash's Eleven Modern Antiquities
Pugwash’s Eleven Modern Antiquities

Pugwash | Eleven Modern Antiquities (1969 Records)

I remember reading a review of Pink Floyd’s The Wall in which the reviewer described the Floyd as a band that never throws an idea away. The idea of a creative force so keenly tuned into their vision being able to use their every idea to bring that vision to life instantly intrigued me. And today, thinking about the idea of using ideas in such a complete way, I thought of Thomas Walsh, the Dublin songwriter whose ideas and vision fuel the musical engine that is Pugwash the band.

I believe, as the reviewer of The Wall believed about Pink Floyd almost 30 years ago, that Walsh is an artist who never throws an idea away, for he knows a good idea when he hears one. Even more, I believe that Walsh couldn’t throw an idea away if he wanted to, because his ideas are that good. Walsh is a pop pundit who fuels his ideas with his deep-seated love of the pop form, whose admiration of the classic pop sound brought forth by bands like the Move and the Electric Light Orchestra and XTC knows no bounds, who lives and breathes what lies at the heart of great pop music and knows how to mix all of that up and create songs steeped in ideas that sing with melodies and harmony and the odd musical quote, and has the good sense, thank God, to share it all with the world.

This fourth Pugwash album, appearing three years on from the richly-defined Jollity, is a high-water mark in a career defined by such milestones. The title of the album, Eleven Modern Antiquities, is ironic, for how can “modern” creations be antiquities, “relics or monuments… of ancient times,” as the word is defined by Merriam-Webster? Walsh suggests that he is a songwriter writing pop songs today, not as if he were plying his trade in, say, the 1960s or 1970s. His is not a retro art, but a modern art that references and is informed by what has come before–a contemporary art, if you will, that is clearly created in the present. If you get a chill up your spine listening to Walsh’s music–if you’re of a certain age or you’re simply wired to swoon under the spell of a clever chord change, sumptuous melody, or a genuinely inspired lyric–you owe it to yourself to become immersed in this absolutely wonderful music. Top of the pops, in fact.

These eleven modern antiquities are really of a piece, so well do they fit together and alongside each other. The first single, “Take Me Away,” a bright and cheery-sounding, straight-ahead pop song of immense charm, is informed musically by Jason Falkner’s expressive, chunky rhythm and otherwise guitars, and bandmates Keith Farrell and Johnny Boyle’s spot-on musicianship, not to mention Walsh’s beautiful voice, an instrument most certainly to treasure.

Treasure, also, Walsh’s particular, knowing way with a lyric. If the catchy and quite appealing music is the yin of “Take Me Away,” the words are the yang. Walsh sings of a person who doesn’t figure the fairness of those “rich in love” coming in last. It’s “…an answer not to be found,” he sings, leading the person to pray for someone to take him away. To the place where questions have answers? Walsh doesn’t venture a guess, but it’s an important question at the heart of a great song.

Taking stock of one’s own self seems to be a recurring theme in Walsh’s writing. A Psychology Today article titled Love Needs, posted on Yahoo! Health, discusses “…the difference between limerance and love.” “Limerance,” the article states, “is the psychological state of deep infatuation.” But it isn’t love. Is it a component of love, or does love transcend limerance? It’s another question for the ages, deftly handled by Walsh in the song “Limerance,” against a hypnotic, dreamy, piano-infused arrangement.

In the epic closer, “Landsdowne Valley,” Walsh recounts a childhood spent playing, sliding on “snow and ice every winter’s day,” only one of the grand adventures that one can look back on when taking stock of one’s growing up. “I played in Landsdowne Valley every single day,” Walsh sings. “I feel those voices are calling me back.” And then, the turn of phrase that so populates Walsh’s work: “My mind’s achilles heel.” The music is sumptuously realized, mellotrons expressing the depth of memory, until the song implodes on itself and finally collapses under a cacophony of sound, the sound of memories colliding in the haze of remembrance. It’s a remarkable song, and a remarkable achievement.

But all is not implosion on Eleven Modern Antiquities. Two songs, co-written with XTC’s Andy Partridge, stand as two of the highlights of an album steeped in them. The jaunty, wildly imaginative “At the Sea” affectionately recounts the imagination of youth at the seaside, the plans formulated that are rained upon for the purpose of spoiling the fun, at which point kids will be “posing with hankies” on their heads, “sipping our tea at the sea.” The sprightly theatricality of the music, complete with whistles and kazoos and a manic acoustic guitar solo by one Mr. Partridge, bring the song to a plateau that is a joy to behold. It’s the kind of catchy tune that, eyes closed, will transport you happily away.

“My Genius,” another Walsh-Partridge co-write, is one of this album’s most affecting treasures. A nostalgia-tinged, supper club pop song with a sweet melody, about a person whose “genius is out of a bottle,” “My Genius” features pretty background vocals by Walsh and the Divine Comedy’s Neil Hannon, who also plays keyboards throughout this album, and neat percussion played by the incomparable Nelson Bragg. Dig the instrumental section, which pairs Hannon’s delicate piano lines with a decidedly-sixties, Beatlesque guitar part.

If there is a centerpiece to this collection of modern antiquities, it is the grand, destined-for-a-Broadway-musical ballad, “Here.” Following on the heels of the gorgeous folk-pop number “Cluster Bomb,” featuring the deftly-performed strings of the Section Quartet, arranged by the invaluable Dave Gregory, late of XTC, “Here” is a simply luminous creation, driven by Hannon’s emotional piano, near to Walsh’s heart of hearts. Here, he wrestles with a question similar to that posed in “Take Me Away”: What do you do when what you long for is just out of reach? To wit, the chorus: “Ever wanted someone but your mind is telling you you’ll fail? Ever needed loving but you come up short again… again… again.”

Special mention must be made of Dave Gregory’s genius that shines like the brightest of lights on “Here.” Gregory’s guitar solo and haunting string arrangement, once again brought to lively life by the Section Quartet, reflect Walsh’s love of all things ELO. This nod to what has come before becomes an integral part of the song’s whole and contributes mightily to what will surely be looked upon by those in the know as a standard for the ages.

That’s what you get with these eleven modern miracles, these eleven modern antiquities that so resonate with the human condition. The whole of this album is a remarkable achievement that will be followed by more remarkable achievements from one of contemporary pop music’s most talented artists. That he speaks to the masses, to the hearts of one and all, is an idea whose time has come. And not a moment too soon.

Alan Haber
March 31, 2008

Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber's Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes
Click on the image to listen to Alan Haber’s Pure Pop Radio through players like iTunes