Category Archives: Music

The Animals’ The House Of The Rising Sun (1964)

If you’re a music history enthusiast, hours of fun can be had perusing the Roud Folk Song Index (https://archives.vwml.org/search/roud), the online database of around a quarter of a million references to nearly 25,000 songs collected from oral tradition in the English language from all over the world, and named after its compiler Steve Roud. It correlates versions of traditional folk song lyrics independently documented over past centuries by many different collectors across the UK and North America. Take Roud number 6393, for instance: The House of the Rising Sun.

Although widely known from the most successful contemporary version, recorded by the Animals in 1964, The House of the Rising Sun is a traditional folk song with deep roots: it was first collected in Appalachia in the 1930s, but probably goes back much further, emanating from the tradition of so-called “broadside ballads”. A “broadside” was a sheet of cheap paper used between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries to distribute news and so on, but also, most popularly, ballads. “Ballads” were narrative rhymes and songs developing from the minstrelsy of the earlier fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and which told folk stories on every topic under the sun, from legends and heroes and religion to the more prosaic side of life.

The House of the Rising Sun ballad tells of a person’s life gone wrong in the city of New Orleans, and is a classic cautionary tale, appealing to his listeners to avoid the same fate:

There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy
And God, I know I’m one

Folk song collector Alan Lomax noted that “Rising Sun” was the name of a bawdy house in at least two traditional English songs, and a name for English pubs (Leeds dwellers may be familiar with the one on Kirkstall Road, albeit now sadly disused). He hypothesised that the location of the said drinking hole-cum-brothel was then simply relocated from England to the US by roaming performers. In 1953, Lomax met Harry Cox, an English farm labourer known for his impressive folk song repertoire, who knew a song called She was a Rum One (Roud 2128) with two possible opening verses, one beginning:

If you go to Lowestoft, and ask for The Rising Sun,
There you’ll find two old whores and my old woman is one.

The oldest known recording of the song, under the title Rising Sun Blues, is by Appalachian artists Tom Ashley and Gwen Foster, who recorded it in 1933. Ashley said he had learned it from his grandfather who had got married around the time of the Civil War, suggesting that the song was written years before the turn of the century.

In 1941, Woody Guthrie recorded a version; Lead Belly recorded two versions in the forties; Joan Baez recorded it in 1960 on her eponymous debut album; Nina Simone recorded a version for the live album Nina at the Village Gate in 1962; and Bob Dylan recorded the song for his debut album, released in March 1962. But it was the Animals, Newcastle’s own blues-rock band made up of Eric Burdon, Alan Price, Chas Chandler, Hilton Valentine and John Steel, who scored a transatlantic number one hit single with it in 1964 and made it their signature tune.

The Animals, The House of the Rising Sun

 

John Newton’s Amazing Grace (1772)

Amazing Grace is one of the most recognisable songs in the English-speaking world – who hasn’t been exposed countless times to these iconic opening lines?

Amazing grace, How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see

It was written in 1772 by English Anglican clergyman John Newton (1725-1807), drawn very much from personal experience. He had grown up without any particular religious bent and after a time having been pressganged into service with the Royal Navy, he became involved in the Atlantic slave trade. However, in 1748 he was on a vessel caught up in a storm so violent that he begged God for mercy and underwent (having presumably got his feet back on terra firma) something of a spiritual conversion. Thereafter, Newton gave up seafaring, studied Christian theology, and became a vocal abolitionist. He once was lost but now was found.

Newton was ordained into the Church of England in 1764, and took a post as curate at Olney in Buckinghamshire, where he met and began to write hymns with William Cowper (who himself would become a celebrated poet and hymnodist). They wrote Amazing Grace to illustrate a sermon Newton was giving on New Year’s Day 1773 with the message that forgiveness and redemption are possible regardless of sins committed and that the soul can be delivered from despair through the mercy of God. It debuted in print in 1779 in their collaborative Olney Hymns.

At this stage, Amazing Grace, like all the other Olney hymns, was still relatively obscure but it took off in the United States when it was picked up and extensively used by Baptist and Methodist preachers during the Protestant revival movement of the early 19th century (the so-called Second Great Awakening). In 1835, American composer William Walker set the words to the tune known as New Britain and this is the version you’ll hear today.

The song has unsurprisingly become a staple of Gospel music, and has also crossed over into secular music with a particular influence in folk music. It’s been recorded thousands of times in the twentieth century, from Elvis Presley to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards; today though, I offer a version by American folk singer Judy Collins, recorded in 1993 with the Boys’ Choir of Harlem.

John Newton

Modest Mussorgsky’s Pictures At An Exhibition (1874)

The Russian composer Modest Mussorgsky (1839-1881) wins my ‘coolest composer’s name’ award, with honourable mention to German composer Engelbert Humperdinck (1854-1921) who of course is not to be confused with mellow British pop singer Arnold Dorsey who used Engelbert Humperdinck as a stage name. Mussorgsky was one of the “The Mighty Five” alongside Mily Balakirev, César Cui, Alexander Borodin, and (another contender for the cool name award) Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. Together, these five fashioned a distinct national style of Russian classical music in the second half of the 19ᵗʰ century.

Mussorgsky’s works were inspired by Russian history and folklore, such as his opera Boris Godunov (about the Tsar who ruled Russia between 1598 and 1605), Night on Bald Mountain (a series of compositions inspired by Russian literary works and legends), and Pictures at an Exhibition. This latter piece is a piano suite in ten movements, written in 1874, and inspired by an exhibition of works by architect and painter Viktor Hartmann at the Imperial Academy of Arts in Saint Petersburg. Hartmann was as devoted as Mussorgsky to making intrinsically Russian art and the two had become firm friends. Each movement of the suite is based on an individual artwork.

Art critic Vladimir Stasov described the piece as Mussorgsky “roving through the exhibition, now leisurely, now briskly in order to come close to a picture that had attracted his attention, and at times sadly, thinking of his departed friend.”

The composition has become a showpiece for virtuoso pianists, but has also became widely known from orchestrations and arrangements produced by other composers, such as Maurice Ravel’s 1922 adaptation for orchestra. The excerpt below is the opening promenade from the Ravel version, as played by the National Youth Orchestra at Carnegie Hall, New York. This is another tune where I say “I bet you know it…”.

Incidentally, prog rock trio Emerson Lake and Palmer did a version of Pictures at an Exhibition, just as they did a version of another blog topic here, Aaron Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man.

Modest Mussorgsky

The Jackson Five’s I Want You Back (1969)

It was Gladys Knight who first made a call to legendary Motown founder Berry Gordy to tell him about an exciting new act she had overheard from her dressing room on the second floor of the Regal Theater, Chicago. Gordy never returned that call but a short time late Motown was approached again, this time by Bobby Taylor of Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers who told A&R Vice President Ralph Seltzer about this sensational act that had opened for them at the High Chaparral club. So it came to pass that the Jackson Five – for it was they – went to Detroit to audition for Motown, and Gordy signed them up right away.

In October 1969, the Jackson Five’s first national single, I Want You Back, was released, and became their first number one hit on 30ᵗʰ January 1970. It was performed on the band’s first television appearances on Diana Ross’s The Hollywood Palace and on their milestone performance of 14ᵗʰ December 1969, on The Ed Sullivan Show.

The song was written and produced by the production team known as The Corporation, comprising Motown chief Berry Gordy himself, Freddie Perren, Alphonso Mizell, and Deke Richards. Originally considered for Gladys Knight & the Pips and later for Diana Ross, the song was re-worked to suit its main lead vocal being performed by a tween, the then-11-year-old Michael Jackson. Here’s Jackie Jackson’s memory of the event:

I remember going into the Motown studio and hearing the track coming through the big studio monitors right in our face,” says Jackie Jackson. “It was slamming. The intro was so strong. Berry always taught us to have a strong intro to get people’s attention right away. And I remember the Corporation teaching us the song. Michael picked it up so fast; it was easy to learn for all of us. They kept changing it here and there for the better. We told them it was great, but the next day Freddie and Fonce added more things to it. They wanted to make it perfect. Michael did these ad-libs at the end of the song. They didn’t teach him that; he just made up his own stuff.”

And “slamming”, it certainly was: an exuberant pop masterpiece that remains one of my favourite all-time songs. It’s joyful – even if it is about a lover who is ruing his hastiness in dropping his girl! Enjoy the whole package here: the glorious costumes, the boys’ voluminous Afros, the well-rehearsed dance moves, and of course the genius of Michael Jackson manifested at a precociously young age. Recorded in the Goin’ Back To Indiana TV special in 1971.

The Jackson Five

 

Jacques Offenbach’s The Tales Of Hoffman (1880)

German author E T A Hoffmann (1776–1822) was one of the major writers of the Romantic movement and his stories of fantasy and Gothic horror highly influenced 19th-century literature. For example, Tchaikovsky’s ballet The Nutcracker is based on Hoffman’s novella The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, while Delibes’ 1870 ballet Coppélia is based on the short story, The Sandman. Incidentally, this excerpt from the latter story, describing that folkloric character the Sandman, amply illustrates that the term ‘Gothic horror’ is no exaggeration (in bygone ages we didn’t half spin some horrific tales for our young, eh?):

Most curious to know more of this Sandman and his particular connection with children, I at last asked the old woman who looked after my youngest sister what sort of man he was. “Eh, Natty,” said she, “don’t you know that yet? He is a wicked man, who comes to children when they won’t go to bed, and throws a handful of sand into their eyes, so that they start out bleeding from their heads. He puts their eyes in a bag and carries them to the crescent moon to feed his own children, who sit in the nest up there. They have crooked beaks like owls so that they can pick up the eyes of naughty human children.”

The Sandman (and two other of Hoffman’s tales, Councillor Krespel and The Lost Reflection) also inspired the subject of today’s blog, the opéra fantastique by French composer Jacques Offenbach, The Tales of Hoffman. Offenbach (1819-1880) was already a famous composer of around 100 operettas, such as Orpheus in the Underworld (1858) and La Belle Hélène (1864), when he collaborated with Jules Barbier to bring The Tales of Hoffman to the stage. It proved to be his final work: knowing he was dying, he wrote to impresario Léon Carvalho:

Hâtez-vous de monter mon opéra. Il ne me reste plus longtemps à vivre et mon seul désir est d’assister à la première” (“Hurry up and stage my opera. I have not much time left, and my only wish is to attend the opening night“)

But it wasn’t to be: Offenbach died in October 1880, four months before the opera’s premiere…nevertheless, his work entered the standard repertory and is a popular piece to this day. Here, listen to Anna Netrebko and Elīna Garanča sing the soprano and mezzo-soprano duet, the Barcarolle (Belle nuit, ô nuit d’amour) from Act III. You either know it or you think you don’t know it…but you’ll know it!

Jacques Offenbach

Franz Gruber’s Silent Night (1818)

It’s Christmas time and once again, like many of you, my family and I enjoyed a candlelit carol service at our local church. I do like this event each year; it marks the arrival of Christmas-proper and is the time when you can pause from the merry-go-round that is Christmas-in-practice and just enjoy the moment. Carols such as O Come All Ye Faithful and Hark, The Herald Angels Sing are ideal for a packed church with a rousing organ (who doesn’t enjoy blasting out those barnstorming Victorian lines such as “Lo, he abhors not the Virgin’s womb” and “Hail th’incarnate Deity”?). The carol that I want to write about today, on the other hand, is better suited to a far more reserved affair: Silent Night is made for hushed tones and a gentle accompaniment, and for me is the very epitome of the reflective element of the season.

The story goes that the carol was first performed on the evening of Christmas Eve in 1818, in St Nicholas Church, Oberndorf, in present-day Austria. The young Catholic priest at the church, Joseph Mohr, found himself in a bit of a pickle when the church organ became incapacitated just before that evening’s Christmas Mass service (in the manner of boilers breaking down at just this wrong time of year, I suppose). Thinking on his feet, he remembered that he had written a nice poem a few years before called Stille Nacht, and wondered if local schoolmaster and organist Franz Gruber might set its six stanzas to music for guitar.

Gruber readily agreed to step into the breach and wrote a melody there and then – and that night, the two men sang Stille Nacht for the first time at the church’s Christmas Mass, with Mohr playing guitar and the choir repeating the last two lines of each verse. According to Gruber, the organ builder who serviced the instrument at the Oberndorf church, was so enamoured of the song that he took the composition home with him to the Zillertal valley in the Tyrol where he shared it with musical friends. From there, two travelling families of folk singers, the Strassers and the Rainers, included the tune in their shows, and its popularity spread all over Europe.

Rainer family

It’s a very moving and humbling song; as a testament to its global popularity, it was sung by troops during the famous Christmas truce of World War I, perhaps because it was the one tune that was familiar to all of them. How poignant the words must have seemed at that particular moment!

German lyrics English lyrics
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Hirten erst kundgemacht
Durch der Engel Halleluja,
Tönt es laut von fern und nah:
Christ, der Retter ist da!
Christ, der Retter ist da!Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht
Lieb’ aus deinem göttlichen Mund,
Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund’.
Christ, in deiner Geburt!
Christ, in deiner Geburt!
Silent night! Holy night!
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child!
Holy infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!Silent night! Holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight!
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!
Christ the Saviour is born!
Christ the Saviour is born!Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!

Here is a rendition by the Spanish sopranos Montserrat Caballé and her daughter Montserrat Martí. Merry Christmas!

Franz Gruber

Dire Straits’ Sultans Of Swing (1978)

As well as writing about art and culture, your blogger has also been known to wield a mean guitar (by “mean”, I mean “average”) and, although fame failed to beckon after the vanity-funded release of the damn fine album Sarabanda by The Mavis Trains in 1999, I still know my approximate way around a fretboard and continue to play from time to time in the comfort of my home. Recently, for a bit of fun, I videoed myself performing an acoustic version of Michael Jackson’s Thriller, to mildly amuse some selected friends. As a result, I was challenged by the son of one of those friends to have a go at that Dire Straits’ classic, Sultans Of Swing.

I suspect, given Mark Knopfler’s obvious technical prowess, that the challenge was delivered with something of an internal chuckle and the thought “good luck with that!”. And so, the ensuing weeks have seen me watching online tutorials, scrutinising line after line of tablature, and furiously practicing with a view to bamboozling my imagined detractors’ assumption of failure. Curse them, and curse Mark Knopfler’s super-fast dexterity and total command of his instrument!

In all seriousness though, Hugo (for it was he), Sultans Of Swing is a great shout; it’s a tremendous song. It was inspired apparently by a real-life encounter with a jazz band in an almost empty pub in Deptford on a rainy night in 1977. Amused by the juxtaposition of the band’s nondescript and shabby appearance (I’m imagining Chas and Dave types) with their grandiose name (“we are the Sultans of Swing!”), Knopfler began to pen what would become his band’s debut single in the following year.

Knopfler wrote the song on a National Steel guitar (a special kind of resonator guitar used by the Bluesmen of old before the days of electronic amplification) but it wasn’t until he played it on a Stratocaster that the song took on the vibrancy with which we associate with it today: “It just came alive as soon as I played it on that ’61 Strat … the new chord changes just presented themselves and fell into place”.  It certainly came alive: let’s hear it again in all its glory, below.

Dire Straits

Sam & Dave’s Soul Man (1967)

In the sixties, just as Berry Gordy up in Detroit was driving the Motown sound, down in Memphis the most influential creator and promoter of that crossover of blues/soul/pop music known as the Memphis sound was Stax Records, founded in 1957 by Jim Stewart and Estelle Axton (Stewart/Axton = Stax). Unprecedented in that time of racial tension and strife in the South, Stax’s staff and artists were ethnically integrated, including their legendary house band Booker T & the MGs, who played on hundreds of recordings by artists including Wilson Pickett, Otis Redding, and Bill Withers.

Booker T & the MGs c. 1967 (L–R): Donald “Duck” Dunn, Booker T. Jones (seated), Steve Cropper, Al Jackson Jr.

Another successful Stax act was Sam & Dave, made up of harmoniously-compatible soul singers Samuel Moore and David Prater, and today let’s enjoy their 1967 recording, Soul Man, written by Isaac Hayes and David Porter. Hayes had found the inspiration for the song in the turmoil of the Civil Rights Movement. In July 1967 he had watched a television newscast about the aftermath of the 12th Street riot in Detroit, Michigan, and noted that black residents had daubed the word “soul” onto their buildings in the hope that the rioters would pass them by – analogous to the biblical story of the Passover, it was their way of saying “Please don’t wreck my building, I’m one of you” (so to speak). The idea morphed in Hayes’ mind into an expression of pride and defiance: “I’m a soul man!”.

The MGs were drafted in to record the song, with the help of horns from that other reliable Stax house band, the Mar-Keys, and the result was an instant smash that would enter the Grammy Hall of Fame. Sam and Dave take it in turns to sing the verses, joining in together for the choruses, and complementing each other seamlessly. One of Steve Cropper’s guitar licks is introduced by the exclamation “Play it, Steve”, a nuance that was repeated some years later when Soul Man was included as one of the soul classics paid tribute to by the makers of 1980’s The Blues Brothers movie (in which Cropper makes an appearance).

Here’s a TV appearance by the duo singing Soul Man (sans Cropper and thus sans the “Play it Steve” snippet but hey…) to an audience that doesn’t quite yet know how to move to the rhythm!

Sam and Dave

 

The Eagles’ Hotel California (1977)

December 1976 saw the release of the Eagles’ Hotel California album, with its eponymous single released in the following February. This was right in the middle of a seminal time for me in terms of musical flowering (the release of the records straddled my 14th birthday) and it hit the spot just as surely as songs by the likes of Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Cat Stevens and David Bowie had in the year or two previously. I loved the way the song told a story (a slightly discomfiting, odd story at that) and how it audaciously included an exquisite and lengthy guitar solo (2 minutes and 12 seconds) that would become the bane of radio producers bred to keep musical offerings short and sweet (the whole song is six and a half minutes long).

Hotel California was the Eagles’ fifth album and they were already the biggest band in America when they embarked on its recording. Sadly, personal relationships in the band had already broken down (a repeating theme in the life of the band, despite which, amazingly, the band endured); nonetheless, personal enmities never stood in the way of the band creating ground-breaking music. Guitarist Don Felder came up with the Hotel California riff, which was then developed by Don Henley and Glenn Frey. Frey’s lyrics were inspired by an attempt to “expand our lyrical horizons and try to take on something in the realm of the bizarre, like Steely Dan had done”.

He certainly nailed it: the brooding imagery around this faded hotel in the middle of nowhere (the hotel in The Shining about sums it up in my head) is magnificently evocative and the lyrics are peppered with killer lines. I cannot conceive of a better line, given the preceding lyrics and leading into the iconic guitar solo, than “you can check out any time you like but you can never leave”. Then again, have there ever been two opening lines – “On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair” – so evocative of a place and milieu? I could go on (“some dance to remember, some dance to forget” et al), but let’s instead just enjoy the whole piece and its wonderful duelling guitars at this live performance at Largo, Maryland, in 1977.

The Eagles

Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 Adagietto (1902)

Although Gustav Mahler (1860-1911) is right up there in the pantheon of composers, his music gained its true currency only well after his death. Sure, he was famous in his lifetime as a conductor but his compositions were largely neglected and indeed banned in Europe during the Nazi era (Mahler was an Ashkenazi Jew), and it was only after 1945 that a new generation of listeners rediscovered his music and turned him into one of the most frequently performed and recorded composers which has sustained to the present day.

Mahler composed his Symphony No. 5 between 1901 and 1902, mostly during the summer months at his holiday cottage at Maiernigg in Austria (his “composing hut” is now a little museum). At nearly seventy minutes long, it’s a musical canvas with some serious scope, but today we’ll look at the fourth movement or Adagietto, a tender piece of music that was said to have represented his love for Alma Schindler whom he married in March 1902.

The Adagietto is undoubtedly the single most well-known piece of Mahler’s music. Leonard Bernstein conducted it during the funeral Mass for Robert Kennedy at St Patrick’s Cathedral in New York in 1968, but it was its use in Luchino Visconti’s 1971 film Death in Venice that skyrocketed it to fame.

Death In Venice was German author Thomas Mann’s 1912 novella about a famous and ennobled writer, Gustav von Aschenbach, who is sojourning in Venice for health reasons and becomes increasingly obsessed with a young handsome Polish boy, Tadzio, who is staying in the same hotel on the Venetian island of Lido.

In the movie, Visconti turns von Aschenbach (Dirk Bogarde) from writer to composer, which allows the musical score (which also includes music by Beethoven and Mussorgsky) to represent Aschenbach’s work. The ending scene in which the dying composer watches Tadzio strolling and wading through the seawater to the enraptured tones of Mahler’s Adagietto (before von Aschenbach promptly keels over dead) is striking. You can go watch the movie (despite the spoiler!) but for now, listen to the music itself:

Gustav Mahler