Quincy Jones' "I Heard That!"

How does a producer mix different instruments together? I'm listening to Quincy Jones' "I Heard That!" album, and am thinking of a famous advertisement: Quincy standing on the back side of a mixing board, resting each elbow on an Auratone SuperSoundCube 5C. These are legendary and awful speakers, almost built to sound like a car stereo or other consumer product. They're just one 4"(?) speaker in a sealed enclosure. When used in the studio, Auratones provide a reference for like nothing else. How this happens is a wonderful mystery I'm not out to discover. I do hear-- on tracks like "Never Gonna Lose This Heaven"-- a wonderfully sparse soundscape. The drums are mild, paced, and sound present in only the highest highs. The bass drives, but does not grumble, the band through progressions, and all else is gloss: horns and horn pops, smooth vocals built of plate verb and sultry women, flutes, and the quietest vibes imaginable. Each track reminds me of Deodato, the keyboard master of the classic-rock-variation-opus. Nothing on this Quincy Jones record feels as inspired, or at least reverent: I could have a party to these riffs, as the synth solos give way to guitar, and the guitar gives way to a vocal tag line or harmonica whirling. Deodato's second album is as spiritual as a prayer service; his version of "Rhapsody in Blue" is transformative.
There's something poetic about these huge mixes-- horn charts, smooth vocal yelling, drum fills and so many fragments of jazz besides-- being piped into perhaps small, effective studio speakers to get mixed together. Perhaps our ears (and our senses?) are simpler than we let ourselves believe.

"Sad And Deep As You"

I first heard the psuedo-Traffic concert "Welcome to the Canteen" on cassette tape, taken from my dad's collection when I was in high school, because I recognized Steve Winwood's name from the Blind Faith album. In high school, I was taken by the interplay between a conga player named Reebop and a rock ensemble-- and, was taken by Steve Winwood's incredible sensibilities when he plays the keys. In high school, I jammed along to the 12-minute version of "Gimme Some Lovin'," an ultimate Oldies radio cut, as it was turned into a funky improvised classic rock jam, years later to be adopted by the Dead themselves.
There is something eerie and empty about "Welcome to the Canteen," and not just for its literally-spacious recording: the hall is huge, and the natural echo on the vocals may be the most entrancing quality of this album. The vinyl plugs both long tracks-- "Dear Mister Fantasy" and "Gimme Some Lovin'" onto side two, leaving the handful of Winwood/Traffic tunes on side one to stand alone. I know the tape sequenced it differently; the vinyl arranges side one to be its own emotional trip, indeed. Winwood's mournful lyrics ring in the hall with a similar emptiness, and the expressive band is forever urged, pushed forward, by the piercing, dynamic congas: "Forty Thousand Headmen" is quite an example of this. The show opens with "Medicated Goo" in a rollicking tone, reminding me of the opening track on so many Steely Dan albums ("Black Friday" included).
The song that really rang true this morning was "Sad And Deep As You," a love song with few words. The movement of the guitar to contrast the slap-happy-sad feel of the percussion, lips that tell a story/sad and deep as you... the house filled with forty-year-old echoes as the sun came up and lit up more leaves that had turned more colors in the night. Like slaps of the conga, they fell as I listened.

An Introduction

Welcome to Common Time Vermont! This blog will celebrate music in all its forms: live, recorded and spontaneous. I drive a lot, giving me the chance to listen to new music on Sirius, or choice CDs. I wake up every morning to a new slice of vinyl: this morning was Guy Clark's album about Texas. As the sun poured across this cabin this morning, the pedal steel echoed against the brick chimney, and the mild swing beat lulled me into morning. Outside, the leaves transform the hills these days, painting them each with a brush of orange, gold and brown tints, until each hill has gone bald with winter, and the leaves are driven underground by snow. Guy Clark sang of the coast of Texas as the sun rose, to burn off the chill of an autumn morning in Vermont.