Showing posts with label The Who. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Who. Show all posts

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Album Review: The Who By Numbers

2011 has been a magical year in many respects. We've seen Lebron James be exposed, the US political system is about to create a crisis that will finally shock the working class into movement against their profane masters, and my life long dream of seeing my beloved Boston Bruins capture Lord Stanley's Cup came true.

But nothing that happened this year has been more important than the development of Grantland. Finally, the vanguard of the intellectual class has congregated in one place to provide round the clock coverage of sports, music and entertainment. My fellow Bostonian Bill Simmons (perhaps spurred on by the greatness of the Bruins?) created this forum of ideas and has populated it with a Who's Whom of great writers. Chief amongst them is Chuck Klosterman. His minute by minute breakdown of Led Zeppelin's In the Evening has inspired me to begin doing track by track reviews of the great albums of rock.

We begin with The Who By Numbers. Following up greatness has always been a difficult task. From Lenin to Rodenberry, those who succeed greatly have trouble following it up with something as amazing (this may befall my beloved Bruins, who, following the greatest season in NHL history, will be hard pressed to win next year's Cup in such exciting fashion). In 1973 The Who released Quadrophenia, the greatest album ever. Would the follow up be another classic, or their version of Earth: Final Conflict?

The answer is that it was, like the Bruins, perfect.

Track 1 - Slipkid

The sound of clapping and a countdown begin The Who's post Quadrophenia efforts. When Pete Townshend's mighty guitar roars onto the scene it becomes clear what will happen with this album. Roger Daltrey's vocals are as to be expected, hitting every note with more passion than I feel for Ray Bourque. We see what The Who By Numbers will be about. Gone are the synthesisers and the massive layers of overdubs. In their places are descriptions of Townshend's alcoholism, lust, and self-loathing, as well as the dark side of creeping "middle age"[clarification needed] and the fear of irrelevance.
No less powerful is the lyrical description of a young man forced into the life of a soldier. Obviously, this song was an examination of the Angolan Civil War, and the listener is taken into the shoes of a staunch anti-imperialist who is fighting for freedom. The guitar solo suggests that we may even be a Cuban national fighting for the international brotherhood. A truly bold choice, Mr. Townshend.
The song concludes with the lament "No easy way to be free." What true words! Freedom requires a great sacrifice, of blood, sweat, money and experimentation. These four minutes and thirty two seconds of greatness extol the virtues of international brotherhood of workers, the fight for freedom, and that special something that makes the world bearable.

Track Two - However Much I Booze

In a bold choice, The Who turn from the theme of the class struggle to expand on the "easy way to be free." Here, Messrs. Townshend and Daltrey (doing an amazing impression of Pete's vocal styles) sing about the false hope offered by alcohol. Now, I am certainly no Prohibition Patty, and have enjoyed a brew or two in my life. But when Roger Daltrey screams "There ain't no way out" it suggests that alcohol doesn't offer such a way out, but perhaps, something else does?
These two tracks serve to illuminate the real message of this album: that only through the class struggle and experimentation with the limits of the mind can we find "a way out" to "be free."

Track Three - Squeezebox

A jaunty little number full of sexual innuendo. But, only on the surface. This is one of the few mistakes on the album. Lyrically, the song works as what it is intended to be: a furtherance of the theme of the work needed to be done to improve our lives. Unfortunately, some weak musical choices turn it into much lighter fare, edible by even young children.
Thankfully, the song reaches its full potential in, of all things, a cover version by the normally ineffectual Poison. The problem with Poison, of course, being their inane lyrics. Every rose does indeed have its thorns, sir, but such trite and obvious observations are better left to American Idol contestants and the ladies from The View. This leads me to an interesting question: would Poison, solely playing the works of Pete Townshend, become the most revolutionary band ever? Judge for yourself (WARNING: Viewing this video may lead to you reexamine your preconceptions about the world):

Simply, amazing. The true spirit of this song is unleashed. Note, too, please, that this took place on the underrated Craig Kilborn's show, a man constantly hounded by the soulless minions of orthodoxy, first being replaced on ESPN for a gaggle of idiots, then on The Daily Show by that petty-bourgeois clown John Stewart, then finally by the reactionary Craig Ferguson. Perhaps we need Mr. Kilborn back on our TVs now, more than ever.

Track Four - Dreaming From the Waist

Another classic, another call to arms, another song that the braindead classes think is purely about sex. What is it about the louts, drunkards, jocks, thirstyboys, and ruffians that cause them to think only in terms of their member? Is it, perhaps, the lack of confidence they hold in it? Some sort of Oedipal obsession? Or is society at fault?
"Dreaming from the waist on down" refers to dreaming with the part of one's body that allows movement. What movement? Perhaps, the inevitable march towards a more equitable society. Or the movement towards enlightenment. Or even a jaunty walk down the street that allows the mind and soul to soar up above the trees and look down upon the world and to see it for what it truly is.
Sadly, this song is also very insensitive towards paraplegics.

Track Five - Imagine a Man

One of the more difficult songs to understand. Seemingly, this should be quite easy to play, but I'm not sure if that's an A minor or A major 7th in the fourth bar of the refrain. Also, moving from an open B to arpeggiated 1/8ths through the D scale? Not at all easy, I assure you. I think I may have this one done soon. Video will be posted, worry not.

Track Six - Success Story

Not bad.

Track Seven - They Are All in Love

Cute.

Track Eight - Blue Red and Grey

Ukulele intros = FUCK YEAH!

Track Nine - How Many Friends

"How many friends have I really got?" Clearly, this song was written by someone without a cat.

Track Ten - In a Hand or a Face
Eagles just signed Cullen Jenkins.

Final Grade: 9.5/10

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

It's Not Music Anymore

Hey guys, it’s been a really tough week. I was put in an idiocy induced coma from hearing the inane driveling of Mel Kiper Jr. I was only snapped out of it by the ingenious words and sounds of The Who’s Quadrophenia. Is it me, for a moment? If I could’ve lived in any other period, it would’ve been Russia in 1917 – an ability to test my mettle as a real man and revolutionary, fighting alongside my proletarian brethren against those who oppressed us and ushering in a brave new world. Then I would put a pick axe in Stalin’s head and save the world forever. If I had another time to live in, it would’ve been England in the early 1970s. To be there for The Who and The Mighty Led Zeppelin… YOWZAS!! Unfortunately, “music” nowadays is nothing but corporate swill and mindless trite. To prove this point, let us take a gander at the Billboard “Hot” 100 to see what cud is being regurgitated into the gaping maws of the mouth-breathers that buy this shit.

#1 – Lil Wayne: Lollipop. What a surprise. “Hip-hop” is topping the charts. I remember when hip-hop meant something. I remember when the NWA was turning out class-conscious albums like Straight Outta Compton. Or when Public Enemy, the Shostakovich of the African American Revolution, was releasing the anthem of Black Struggle – It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. Now, hip-hop is nothing more than a collaborationist medium of the white, military-industrial complex that illegally occupies black cities. Their only goal is to divert the attention of the black proletariat from the struggle and turn them into lumpen proletariat – constantly out “hustlin’” and trying to get “money” and “hos” instead of fighting against those who oppress them. Good work Lil Wayne, you’re more of a class traitor than the Kronstadt scum – and hopefully you’ll meet the same fate.

#2 – Leona Lewis – Bleeding Love. No idea who this is. Her song could be called bleeding vag for all I care, I won’t listen.

#3 – Jordin Sparks – No Air. She came from the awful, awful American Idol. The goal of this program is to turn music into the most corporatist amalgamation of soulless tones and subliminal advertising that is possible. Perhaps if this young lady could get Coca-Cola’s dick out of her mouth long enough to try and learn to sing, perhaps from a great like Robert Plant, she could have a future. And lose some weight. No one likes fat chicks.

#4 – Usher feat. Young Jeezy – Love in the Club. See above. This maggot doesn’t merit me repeating myself.

#5 – Mariah Carey – Whatever Shit She’s Selling. I don’t even know if I can work up the energy to comment about this. Mariah Carey? I’ll buy her a bus ticket so she can come down here, service me, and then go to work picking trash up off the streets of Philadelphia for the rest of her life to try and repay the debt from the harm she inflicted upon society by singing and “acting.” Wait, I forgot Glitter. She just needs to be shot.

#6 – Madonna feat. Justin Timberlake – 4 Minutes. Wow. How is this whore still relevant? Her faux British accent is an insult to great men like Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend, John Entwhistle and Keith Moon who really do/did have British accents. And Justin Timberlake? In Nepal, the workers are trying to seize control. In Venezuela they’re fighting against the meddling hands of imperialism. And all over Eastern Europe and Africa they are struggling in the streets everyday for rights. Here, in America, we’re listening to a washed up corporate whore, whose only notable contribution to society was to once fondle Jose Canseco’s tiny, steroid ravaged member, and her gal pal Justin Timberlake – who I assume exists merely to prove to all that God has abandoned us.

I cannot go beyond the top six, as I have grown weary from being exposed to this propaganda. I now need to refresh my soul the only way I know how.