La Vie En Robe

Ten Albums That Blew My Mind In 2012

You've already been "listed to death" in the last few weeks, haven't you? Well, beautiful people, here's one more.

Only, I'm not going to tell you which were the best, most important, most relevant, most vital, most Talking Heads-influenced, most gluten-free, most "they're paying me to insist that this dogshit actually tastes like peanut butter" albums of the year. (Put it this way — I spun Boston's Don't Look Back LP way more often this year than I listened to The Black Keys' El Camino, simply because it's at least 100 times more awesome.) Nope, I'm merely offering up ten albums, in no particular order, that legitmately kicked me in the head/heart/groin in 2012, and will most likely keep me coming back for more...

The Greg Foat Group — Girl And Robot With Flowers

Actually, I also really loved their 2011 debut, Dark Is The Sun, which I didn't get hip to until this year. While that one was more in the Roy Budd/late-60s British soundtrack bag, this one is kinda more like Vince Guaraldi or Dave Brubeck in space — which is, of course, a beautiful (and unfortunately appropriate) thing.

Menahan Street Band — The Crossing

Another album of songs without words, The Crossing is a bit of a departure from what you might expect from soul man Charles Bradley's backing band, a collection of widescreen (but impeccably groovy) soundtrack jams in search of a film. These guys should really be allowed to score the next Bond flick, or at least tag-team it with the Greg Foat Group.

The Assemble Head In Sunburst Sound — Manzanita

Yeah, I'd rather listen to these contemporary San Francisco psychonauts than most 60s Bay Area bands, with the exception of CCR, Sly and the Family Stone and Blue Cheer; sue me, already. Though Manzanita doesn't blow me away quite as completely as 2009' When Sweet Sleep Returned — the first AHISS I got turned on to, and still their best in my opinion — it still casts a pretty heady spell with its swirling layers of dreamy vocal harmonies, whirring organs and thick guitar fuzz.

Cody Chesnutt — Landing On a Hundred

I completely missed out on Mr. Chesnutt's critically-acclaimed 2002 album The Headphone Masterpiece; I'll be sure to check it out one of these days, at least once I've fully absorbed the soulful excellence of this album, which comes on like a 21st century (and even more damaged) Marvin Gaye circa What's Goin' On/Trouble Man/Let's Get It On, and never lets up.

Dean Allen Foyd — The Sounds Can Be So Cruel

One of the worst band names I've heard this year — and ye gods, that's saying something — and these Swedes dare to compound the awfulness by calling the first two tracks on their debut album "Please Pleaze Me" and "Lovely Sorts of Death". And yet... this is one of the best, most consistently "set the controls for the heart of your bong" psychedelic rock albums I've heard in eons, all Syd-era Pink Floyd meets early Beefheart meets Lea Riders Group. If I was into to throwing happenings that freaked me out, these guys would be my house band.

Michael Kiwanuka — Home Again

This record pretty much had me from the delay-drenched flute that opens "Tell Me A Tale," and hasn't relaxed its grip since. A 24 year-old British singer-songwriter born of Ugandan refugees, Kiwanuka sounds at least ten years older (a compliment) with a definite Bill Withers/Terry Callier/Richie Havens thing goin' on. Folky, soulful, beautifully open-hearted, and occcasionally devastating ("Worry Walks Beside Me"), this is one gorgeous debut.

The Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell — Don’t Hear It… Fear It!

Tongue-twisting band name meets lame album title — and are both rendered completely irrelevant by this British band's mighty, meaty brand of hard psych. There's plenty of Sir Lord Baltimore/Captain Beyond/Black Sabbath/Pink Fairies damage in the grooves here, and maybe even a touch of SF Sorrow-era Pretty Things. Which means, of course, that it's highly recommended. 

Witchcraft — Legend

There's no shortage of 70s-influenced doom metal bands out there today (which is certainly something to be thankful for), but I always find myself gravitating back to Witchcraft. Not only do these Swedes kick some vicious ass instrumentally, but frontman Magnus Pelander is their secret weapon; his measured, melancholy vocals — which completely avoid lapsing into growls, screams or any other kind of metal histrionics — mesh perfectly with the ineffable bleakness of the band's cough syrup-dark riffage.

Lee Fields & The Expressions — Faithful Man

Allow me to quote here from my eMusic review of this album, since I already got it right the first time:

"Lee Fields doesn’t mess around. On Faithful Man, his first album since 2009′s acclaimed My World, it takes the veteran soul man just eight seconds to hit peak intensity. 'I’ve always been a faithful man, till you came along,' he pleads against a tense 'It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World'-style groove. His voice filled with apocalyptic dread because he knows he’s powerless against temptation, but he also knows that giving in will change his life forever. It’s classic soul conundrum – and these days, nobody does classic soul better than Lee Fields."

Bill Fay — Life Is People

Widely ignored in the States, British singer-songwriter Bill Fay's first true studio album in over 40 years was hailed as a major event in the UK, and rightly so. "Humanistic" has been used repeatedly to describe this record, which is pretty much right on the money; hushed, elegaic piano ballads like "The Healing Day," "Jesus, Etc." and "Be At Peace With Yourself" all stare down the impossibly heavy truths of human existence, but do so with such beautiful gentleness, kindness and humility, you walk away feeling uplifted instead of beaten down. It's impossible to not read Life Is People as a final benediction to the human race before Fay shuffles off this mortal coil, but hopefully he's just getting started again...

Ed Cassidy, 1923-2012

Spirit drummer Ed Cassidy, bless his perpetually bald head, has passed away at the ripe old age of 89.

I have to admit that I was never the biggest Spirit fan, beyond a handful of their hits ("I Got A Line On You," "Nature's Way," "1984") and deep cuts ("Jewish," "Girl In Your Eye"). I've owned all of their 60s and early 70s records at some point, but none of them ever left me with anything beyond a deep respect for their obvious skill and musicality. Their unique Topanga hippie/jazz/psych/hard rock stew just failed to get my salivary glands going, for whatever reason.

But as much as I've found it hard to dig Spirit, it was always hard NOT to dig Ed Cassidy. There was clearly something larger than life about that grinning, black-clad, chrome-domed dude behind that giant Spirit kit, and the fact that he was a jazz vet old enough to be the father of everyone else in the band — and, in actuality, the step-father of guitarist Randy California — just made him seem that much more otherworldly. (And, of course, he was an absolute motherfucker on drums.) Cassidy was always, by far, my favorite thing about Spirit.

I only saw Ed Cassidy play once: In the summer of 1994, with a pared-down version of Spirit (Ed, Randy and a keyboard player), who were opening for Arthur Lee and Love (the Baby Lemonade version) at the Strand in Redondo Beach. The show was, unfortunately, pretty weak; Ed and Randy still played great, but there were huge holes missing in the sound where the rest of the band ought to have been, and Randy kept bogging down the pace of the show with interminable between-song monologues. Some of my most vivid memories of the show are of Arthur — who happened to be standing next to me, and who was definitely not on his best behavior that night — mercilessly heckling Randy from the audience.

"You know," offered Randy at one point, while meandering his way through an introduction to a cover of Jimi Hendrix's "Red House," "A lot people don't know that Jimi loved children, maaaan. Jimi just LOVED children!"

"He hated YOU!" shouted Arthur. "I KNOW! He TOLD me!" Amused by his own razzing, Arthur then turned and elbowed me conspiratorially in the ribs. "Heh, heh! Got him that time!" he cackled. This basically continued throughout the rest of the set, with Randy nattering on between songs about the innate grooviness of this or that while pretending not to hear Arthur's relentless wisecracks.

The other thing I remember vividly about the show was walking out into the lobby afterwards and seeing Ed manning the Spirit merch table, where he was interacting with his fans with the same kind of open-hearted enthusiasm he brought to playing the drums. I watched him sign a copy of The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus LP for an old hippie dude, who was gearing up to tell Ed a story about the time he'd seen Spirit play at some festival back in the day... but then had a full-on "veteran of the psychic wars" brain fart, and completely lost track of what he was trying to say.

"I, uh... you were, uh... it was... Ohhh, maaaan..."

Ed — bald, imposing, still soaked in sweat from the show — just nodded patiently, grinned, and patted the guy gently on the shoulder.

"I know how it is, brother," he said.

Rest in Peace, Ed.