Tin Pan Scally

Nile & Nard

My introduction to the work of writing/production team Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers came when, as a schoolboy in the early 90s, my classmate (and soon-to-be musical collaborator) Simon Barber enthusiastically thrust a C90 cassette into my hand in the schoolyard, one side of which was graced with a crackly vinyl transfer of CHIC's second album, 1978's C'est Chic. I'd recently taken up the bass guitar and, while researching some of the instrument's greatest exponents, had come across Edwards' name several times, so I was duly intrigued. What I hadn't reckoned on was he and his partner being almost instantly catapulted into my personal pantheon of musical demigods.

The songs were almost uniformly catchy and funky, certainly - I'd anticipated as much - but I was also struck by the sleekness of the production and just how much space there was in the music. Then there was the unique, irresistable interplay between Edward's bubbling basslines and Rodger's chugging guitar, ably underpinned by Tony Thompson's crisp drums. The vocals were by turns exultant and sensual. The overall mood of the record was joyous, even life-affirming. When I finally got a glimpse at C'est Chic's cover, my conversion was complete; the elegance of the music was more than matched by the band's visual style (inspired by Rodger's admiration of Roxy Music's striking aesthetic), and the portrait shot of Nile and Nard that adorned the inner sleeve was (and remains) the epitome of badass. I was, it's safe to say, enraptured.

Eventually, thanks to snaffling a place on a course at a local performing arts college which (get this) paid me 100 quid a week to turn up, I was able to start building my own record collection, and began with the prompt acquisition of my own vinyl copy of C'est Chic, along with CHIC's self-titled debut (1977) and their sublime Risqué (1979). The latter is easily their artistic peak, and worth hearing if only for the full, eight-minute-plus version of the hugely influential 'Good Times', arguably the apogee of the unfairly maligned disco era, featuring one the most memorable (and ripped off) basslines ever committed to record. Also worth a special mention is 'My Feet Keep Dancing', possibly the least musically complex track Edwards and Rodgers ever wrote but combining insistent strings, an unerring eigth-note bassline and a tapdancing(!) breakdown to dramatic, devastating effect:

From a songwriting perspective, Nile and Nard were masters of economy. Their tunes were simple, instantly memorable and often placed within a narrow melodic range (all the easier for people to sing along to), while their song structures usually adhered to a basic chorus-verse-chorus approach; they had little truck with middle-eights. They deviated little from this formula, but deviation simply wasn't necessary when the results were of such a consistently high quality. One of the best examples of their writing style can be heard in 'I Want Your Love' (which opens side 2 of C'est Chic), originally written for Sister Sledge. Check out how the verses are based on just one chord, but the variation in the vocal melody holds your attention until that killer chorus kicks back in:

What's most staggering is that, at the same time as they were crafting their CHIC masterworks, Edward and Rodgers were also heavily involved in the writing and production of a number of outside projects, chief among them being Sister Sledge's We Are Family (1979), which boasts no less than four hit singles from its eight cuts: the title track, 'Lost in Music', 'He's the Greatest Dancer' and 'Thinking of You'. Not quite that album's equal, but still a none-too-shabby affair is 1980's Diana, produced by the pair for Diana Ross, which spawned further three hit singles, despite enduring a difficult birth thanks to Miss Ross's infamously prima donna-ish tendencies (not to mention a botched remix which permanently erased a string arrangement from 'Upside Down'). Each of their outside productions bore the unmistakeable hallmarks of the CHIC sound: the propulsive rhythm section of Edwards, Rodgers and Thompson, sultry vocals, big choruses, spacious arrangements and sweeping strings:

Though the music of The Chic Organization continues to be justly celebrated by fans and critics alike, not to mention discovered by new generations, oft overlooked is its creators' social and political consciousness and the way in which they wove their ideologies into their work. The overarching message of the Edwards and Rodgers oeuvre is one of mutual acceptance and inclusivity, accentuating the positive and uniting as one in the face of all that's wrong in the world. Nile & Nard didn't just want us to move our dancing feet, they wanted to engage our brains into the bargain.

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No Distance Left to Run (2010)

Sifted through my ever-growing Sky + backlog last night and decided to have a gander at the new Blur documentary, No Distance Left to Run, broadcast on BBC2 a few weeks back. In short, I was rather impressed.   The framing device for the film is last year's reunion of the band for a short run of UK shows, commencing at the venue where they played their first gig and culminating in their triumphant appearance at Glastonbury. Interspersed with footage of the reconvened four-piece's rehearsals, the gigs themselves and archive footage of the band in its youthful prime are candid interviews with Messrs Albarn, Coxon, James and Rowntree. Each talks engagingly about Blur's origins, their faltering early years, their stellar success as figureheads of the Britpop movement and, most affectingly, their relationships with eachother.   What emerges is a touching portrait of four friends who somehow managed to survive the tumult and excess that accompanied being in one of the biggest bands of the 90s and emerge relatively intact, with a greater love and respect for eachother into the bargain.     Superbly shot and edited, No Distance Left to Run is essential viewing, and not just for Blur fans. Anyone who's ever experienced the unique camaraderie, the pleasure and occasional pain of being in a band with their mates will find much to identify with here.  

"Do you love me like you know you ought to do?"

Like so much of Paul McCartney's solo catalogue, it's taken those outside of his devoted fanbase quite some time to appreciate the eccentric brilliance of his 1971 sophomore effort, Ram. Actually credited to both Paul & Linda (making it unique in the McCartney oeuvre), Ram is Macca firing on all creative cylinders; in fact, the album contains so many ideas it at times threatens to collapse under their weight. Each song bursts with memorable hooks, killer riffs and audacious vocal arrangements.
 
Recorded in New York City from January to March 1971, the album was a marked departure from McCartney's eponymous solo debut, released a year earlier. McCartney had been a self-played, deliberately lo-fi, largely homespun affair, its author seeking domestic refuge from the escalating tensions between himself and his then bandmates. By the time the sessions for Ram rolled around, however, The Fabs were no more and, though still embroiled in litigation with Beatles manager Allen Klein and his former colleagues, McCartney was in buoyant mood and bursting with ideas far too expansive for a primitive Studer 4-track. Recording at CBS and Phil Ramone's A&R Studios in midtown Manhattan, McCartney had, via a series of top secret auditions, assembled a muscular backing band of crack session musicians to help bring the music to life, the core of which comprised drummer Denny Seiwell (later to join Wings) and first-call guitarists Hugh McCracken and David Spinozza. No less than the New York Philharmonic would supply orchestral overdubs for 'Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey' and 'The Back Seat of My Car'.
 
The material is, for the most part, a typical Macca mix of guitar-fuelled rockers ('Eat at Home', 'Smile Away', 'Too Many People'), folky acoustic ditties ('Heart of the Country'), music-hall whimsy ('Dear Boy', 'Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey) and lush balladry (the closing 'The Back Seat of My Car') all dispatched with typical breezy aplomb, a testament to McCartney's musical versatility.
 
Then there are the album's truly uncategorisable cuts. A real oddity in the Macca canon (and arguably the album's zenith), 'Monkberry Moon Delight' is possibly the barmiest thing McCartney's ever committed to record. Built around a seesawing guitar riff, pounding piano, and a series of nonsense verses redolent of Edward Lear, it's rollicking good fun, McCartney barking out his vocal with gleeful abandon over the band's lolloping groove; his demented ad libs during the fade out in particular are the epitome of inspired lunacy:
 
 
Another highlight on a record chock full of them is the atmospheric, ukulele-based 'Ram On', McCartney softly beseeching the listener to 'give your heart to somebody soon, right away'  over a simple but effective three-chord vamp, a dash of ambient electric piano, haunting backing vocals, and a simple rhythm track made up of kick drum, handclaps and the sound of his own foot stamping on the wooden studio floor. It's truly original stuff, and further evidence of just how adventurous and inspired McCartney was feeling during this period. According to its author, the song's point of origin was the back seat of a New York cab during one of his many journeys to and from the studio; the ukulele's portability meant he could take one wherever he went in case inspiration struck:  
 
 
 
The wonderful 'Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey' deftly fuses a number of song fragments into something approaching a mini suite. Though lyrically slight, it's superbly arranged and performed, and as good a showcase of its author's bounteous melodic gifts as any in his songbook, boasting more hooks in its 4 minutes and 55 seconds than most artists can manage in an entire album. McCartney's 'character songs' and whimsical inclinations have often been used as a stick for his critics to beat him with, and admittedly he has occasionally lapsed into tweeness with such material, but here the balance is perfect and, again, the track is performed with such gusto it would take the hardest of hearts not to warm to it. Check out this article, which offers a welcome and all-too-rare glimpse behind the scenes at the Ram recording sessions with particular focus on 'Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey'.
 
In promoting the album, McCartney was at pains to point out his wife's involvement in its creation, and with good reason. How much of the songwriting she actually did might be questionable, but Linda's vocal harmonies are inarguably a vital component in Ram's overall sonic canvas. By her own admission not the most natural singer, she nevertheless manages to negotiate some hugely complex vocal arrangements with admirable skill. Listening to these arrangements, and Linda's key role in their execution, one can't help but wonder why her husband never again used her voice to quite the same extent on any of his subseqent albums. She's unmistakeably present on those records, of course, just not employed quite as effectively. Check out her work on 'Dear Boy' and note the striking vocal blend she creates with Paul:
 
 
Though the three tracks highlighted thus far make for quirkier fare, Ram is not found wanting in the pure, balls-out rock department either. McCracken and Spinozza's electric guitar work is exceptional throughout, and if my ear isn't deceiving me, McCartney's own distinctive licks are discernible on a number of cuts. Each turns out coruscating riffs and solos (check the outro to 'Too Many People') when required, but there's also a considerable lightness of touch shown in their acoustic work on the likes of 'Uncle Albert...' and 'Heart of the Country', McCartney's countrified paean to the virtues of rustic living. The latter also features some nifty, Chet Atkins inspired finger-picking.
 
Ram received a decidedly mixed critical reception upon its release (though unsurprisingly it sold very respectably indeed) and its lyrical content notably drew the ire of one John Ono Lennon, who perceived several songs on the record to contain a number of broadsides aimed at Yoko and himself. Paul denied this for the most part, but did admit to having the Lennons in mind when he penned the line 'too many people preaching practices, don't let 'em tell you what you wanna be' from 'Too Many People'. His aggrieved former collaborator responded with a number of barbed comments in the music press and, musically, with the infamously vituperative 'How Do You Sleep?' on his Imagine album, released the same year, as well as spoofing Ram's cover photo (Paul holding a Ram by the horns) by including a picture of himself on the sleeve grabbing a pig by the ears. To say the relationship between the two was fractious at this point in time would be a major understatement.
 
The remainder of the 70s would see McCartney release a further seven long-players and a double live album, most of which contain their share of deathless gems, but none hang together quite so well, or are executed with such verve and panache as Ram. It's vintage Macca, not to mention the very musical embodiment of arguably the strongest marriage in rock. If you've not yet been exposed to its sundry charms, procure a copy by fair means or foul, stick it on, crank it up, and smile away...

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