Sunday, July 8, 2012
JEFFREY MORGANíS MEDIA BLACKOUT #323
Sun, July 8, 2012 | link
OUT ON THE JEFFREY MORGAN’S
MEDIA BLACKOUT #323!
SIZZLING JAZZ PLATTER OF
THE WEEK: Animation – Agemo (Rare Noise) :: Although it’s been decades since Joni Mitchell recorded
the world’s first Miles Davis tribute album Aisles Of Miles, few have followed her exemplary example. Indeed,
the last one I can recall that was worth listening to was 2007’s double disc delight Miles From India—until
The one also has two discs, but with a novel twist that’s
easily worth the price of admission alone. Y’see, each disc contains covers of the same six songs, from “Bitches
Brew to “Pharaoh’s Dance” with the difference being that the fusionish first 74 minutes disc is a trippy
“Headphones Mix” while the Stockhausenish second 49 minute disc is meant to be blasted outta your
speakers at maximum Miles-like volume. And yeah, as you might’ve guessed from the radically different total track times,
each disc contains different versions.
Trust me, this one’s almost as
good as if Miles had recorded it himself.
– Miles Runs The Voodoo Lounge Down (Columbia) :: Worst Rolling Stones tribute album ever.
SIZZLING ROCK PLATTER OF THE WEEK: Desmond Grundy – Tiles From
The Amber Room (Mouthful Of Records) :: In case you weren’t paying attention the first time around and don’t
remember what I said about DG’s first self released album Oddly Enough way back in MB278, I’ll reiterate
“So I’m spinnin’ the first song and suddenly
thinking that, no, the absolute last thing I wanna do is say that Desmond is the new Lou Reed ’cause he seems
to be way too normal to be saddled with that kind of calamitous tag. But every time I hear the gnarly destorto guitar
grinding up behind him, I get flummoxed into thinking that I’m listening to some kinda vintage Velvet Underground gradation.
And suddenly I’m thinking, yes, that’s cool because nobody sounds like Unca Lou anymore—not even
the old reprobate himself ’cause he’s way too normal these days to be saddled with that kind
of calamitous tag.”
In other words, I didn’t need to have the wisdom
of Solomon to know that this here Grundy had what we in the rock writin’ biz call potential. But the big question on
every seasoned tout’s mind the second time around is: can Desmond deck ya again? Well, as my old pal the Kingfish would
say: “He sho’ nuff can!”
First of all, the album title is
straight outta spooky Lynch City where the busses never run on time—if ever. Even better, he plays all of the
instruments by himself in the best Todd Rundgren studio-spazz tradition. Finally, his voice—which vacillates between
Loaded romance and Tonight’s The Night dissipation—is buried beneath a swirling miasma of destorto
fuzzed up beach blanket bohemia that makes Exile On Aladdin Sane St. sound like like Wish You Were Here.
I just hope that his next album sucks ’cause I’m getting tired of sounding
like a palooka from Payolaville.
Be seeing you!