music clip of the day

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Category: guitar

Sunday, March 3rd

Lord, have mercy . . .

Rev. Gary Davis, “Death Don’t Have No Mercy,” c. 1970

Friday, March 1st

Let’s end the week where we began—Europe, 1967, Sam & Dave.

“Hold On, I’m Comin'” (with Booker T. & the M.G.’s* and The Mar-Keys**), Norway


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lagniappe

random thoughts

The Internet, which reminds us, repeatedly, that there is here and then is now, may make Buddhists of us all.

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*Booker T. Jones, organ; Steve Cropper, guitar; Donald “Duck” Dunn, bass; Al Jackson, Jr., drums.

**Wayne Jackson, trumpet; Andrew Love & Joe Arnold, tenor saxophones.

Monday, February 25th

two takes

“When Something Is Wrong With My Baby” (I. Hayes & D. Porter)

Sam & Dave, live, Germany (Offenbach), 1967


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Isaac Hayes, TV Show (Top of the Pops), England, 1995


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lagniappe

reading table

“The World Contracted to a Recognizable Image”
by William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)

at the small end of an illness
there was a picture
probably Japanese
which filled my eye

an idiotic picture
except it was all I recognized
the wall lived for me in that picture
I clung to it as a fly

Sunday, February 24th

back to church

The Wings of Faith, of Waynesboro, Mississippi (pop. 5,197), live, 2012

Wednesday, February 20th

basement jukebox

Magic Sam (AKA Samuel Maghett, 1937-1969), Cobra Records, Chicago

“All Your Love,” 1957

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“Love Me with a Feeling,” 1957

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“Everything Gonna Be Alright,” 1958

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“21 Days In Jail,” 1958

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taking a break

I’m taking some time off—back soon.

Sunday, February 17th

Voices, hands.

Guitar, bass, drums.

And soul.

Sensational Friendly Brothers, Canton, Mississippi (St. James Missionary Baptist Church), 1978

“Where Shall I Be (When the First Trumpet Sounds)”



***

“Heaven Is My Goal”


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lagniappe

mail

Thanks, Richard—great clips too.

—George Saunders, featured here the other day

Friday, February 8th

only rock ’n’ roll

Some bands I keep coming back to.

The Dirtbombs, “Ever Lovin’ Man,” San Francisco (Amoeba Music), 2008


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lagniappe

reading table

Odd, I have now a mania for shortness. Whenever I read my own or other people’s works it all seems to me not short enough.

—Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)

Thursday, January 31

passings

Butch Morris, February 10, 1947-January 29, 2013, cornetist, composer, conductor

“Conduction #188,” live, Italy (Sant’Anna Arresi), 2009


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From the New York Times’ obituary:

Butch Morris, who created a distinctive form of large-ensemble music built on collective improvisation that he single-handedly directed and shaped, died on Tuesday in Brooklyn. He was 65.

The cause was cancer, said Kim Smith, his publicist and friend. Mr. Morris, who lived in the East Village, died at the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Fort Hamilton.

Mr. Morris referred to his method as“conduction,” short for “conducted improvisation.” He defined the word, which he trademarked, as “an improvised duet for ensemble and conductor.”

He would often begin a performance by setting a tempo with his baton and having his musicians develop a theme spontaneously and then seize on the musical ideas he wanted to work with, directing the ensemble with a vocabulary of gestures and signals. An outstretched upward palm, up or down to indicate volume, meant sustain; a U shape formed with thumb and forefinger meant repeat; a finger to the forehead meant to remember a melodic phrase or a rhythm that he would summon again later.

He introduced this concept in 1985 and at first met resistance from musicians who were not willing to learn the vocabulary and respond to the signals; he was often in a position of asking artists to reorient themselves to his imagination and make something new out of familiar materials. But he demanded to be taken seriously, and he was. After 10 years he had made enough recordings to release “Testament,” a well-received 10-disc set of his work. After 20, he had become an internationally admired creative force, presenting conductions at concert halls worldwide and maintaining regular workshops and performances at the East Village spaces Nublu, Lucky Cheng’s and the Stone.

Mr. Morris, who also played cornet, began his career as a jazz musician in Los Angeles. After settling in New York in the early 1980s, he took his place among both the downtown improvising musicians of the Kitchen and the Knitting Factory and the purveyors of multidisciplinary, mixed-media art flourishing in the city.

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In decades of workshops around the world, and for a stretch, from 1998 to 2001, at Bilgi University in Istanbul, he taught his signals and gestures. Some of these were common to all conductors; some were adapted from the California jazz bandleaders Horace Tapscott and Charles Moffett, whom he had known early in his career (he also cited Sun Ra, Lukas Foss and Larry Austin’s “Improvisations for Orchestra and Jazz Soloists’’ as influences); many were his own.

He said he didn’t care whether people thought his music was jazz or not, although he himself saw it as derived from jazz but not beholden to it. “As long as I’m a black man playing a cornet,” he reasoned, “I’ll be a jazz musician in other people’s eyes. That’s good enough for me. There’s nothing wrong with being called a jazz musician.”

Ben Ratliff, 1/29/13

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WKCR-FM (Columbia University) is devoting much of today’s programming to a Butch Morris Memorial Broadcast, featuring his music until 3 p.m. (EST).

Tuesday, January 29th

two takes

“If I Could Only Fly” (B. Foley)

Merle Haggard, TV show (music starts at 1:15), 1986


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Blaze Foley (1949-1989)


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What makes this song work? For me two things stand out; both relate to the first line of the hook (“If I could only fly . . .”). One is the sounds of the words: the repeated “f’s,” the long “i” and the “y.” The other is what happens with the melody: the little step up on the second syllable of “only.” To me it suggests, fleetingly, what it might feel like, as imagined by the singer, to take flight—”if only.”

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lagniappe

Here’s one more take—Blaze, boozy, somebody’s backyard, 1985.

Monday, January 28th

old school

Lee Fields & The Expressions, “Faithful Man,” 2012

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lagniappe

reading table

[W]e live in a place/That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves.

—Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”