Tin Pan Scally

"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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"Life ain't so bad at all..."

 
As the grisly speculation over the circumstances surrounding Michael Jackson''s untimely demise continues, the less ghoulish among us have opted to remember the self-proclaimed 'King of Pop' through his music. For me, nothing in Jackson''s discography better epitomises his singular talent than his 1979 offering, and first collaboration with Quincy Jones, 'Off The Wall'. Though Jackson''s solo career had been underway for several years prior to its release, with four pleasant-if-unremarkable long-players already under his belt, 'Off The Wall' truly established him as a solo artist to be reckoned with and paved the way for the stratospheric success of 'Thriller' three years later. Though there's no doubting the latter deserves its place in the pantheon of great pop records, and it doesn't take a Paul Gambaccini to calculate that it's by some margin the more popular of the two (as global sales of over 100 million copies to date will attest), there is a charm, exuberance and sheer joie de vivre about 'Off The Wall' that, for me, puts it qualitatively streets ahead of its follow-up.

From the breathy, faltering, slightly effete spoken intro to ''Don''t Stop 'Til You Get Enough'' to ''Burn This Disco Out''''s joyous fade, there is hardly a moment on the record (save for the balladic interlude of ''She''s Out of My Life'') that isn't suffused with a sense of fun and vivacity; Jackson is having an absolute ball, every vocal peppered with whoops, yelps, cackles, or breathy, percussive vocal sounds, or a combination of the lot. Never again, bar a few such moments on 'Thriller', would a Jackson record sound so life-affirming. It''s perhaps no coincidence that the album was recorded as Jackson''s management contract with his father, Joe, was about to draw to a close, freeing him not just creatively, but from a domineering presence who''d cast a considerable shadow over his formative years in showbusiness.

Jackson''s bravura vocal performances notwithstanding, much of the album''s energy can be attributed to its 'live' sound and the stellar cast of session musicians assembled by Quincy Jones, among them bassists Louis Johnson and Bobby Watson (whose insouciant performance on ''Rock With You'' is a key to that track''s silky charm), drummer John 'J.R.' Robinson, keyboardist Greg Phillinganes, and a crack brass section led by trumpeter Jerry Hey. The term ''session musician'' is much maligned by music purists, carrying for them a connotation of soulless, uninspired proficiency, but the man known to his friends as ''Q'' elicits fine performances from all concerned- funky, tasteful, and never drawing too much attention from the real star of the show. Indeed, one has to listen very closely to 'Off The Wall' to even notice some of the breathtaking musicianship on display, so subtly is it woven into the mix by engineer par excellence Bruce Swedien. Only Louis Johnson gets to momentarily share the limelight with Michael, courtesy of the earth-shaking slap groove that dominates ''Get On The Floor''.

Another vital ingredient in the album''s enduring success is the astute choice of material. Jackson himself comes into his own as sole writer of several the album''s best cuts, not least the scintillating opener ''Don''t Stop 'Til You Get Enough'' and the propulsive ''Working Day and Night''. Of equal importance are the three tracks written by Rod Temperton, an ex-pat Brit (hailing from Cleethorpes) who''d already enjoyed considerable success as keyboardist and principle songwriter with Heatwave, as well as providing hits for the likes of Rufus and The Brothers Johnson. Temperton contributed the title track (which the musicologists among you will notice cannibalises the bassline to his own ''Boogie Nights''), the hugely underrated ''Burn This Disco Out'' and the evergreen ''Rock With You''. Temperton would again prove his worth three years later, penning the title track to what would go on to be the biggest selling album in history. Go here to treat yourself to a smorgasbord of other Temperton-penned delights.

Elsewhere are contributions from such luminaries as Paul McCartney (''Girlfriend''), Stevie Wonder (''I Can't Help It'') and Carole Bayer Sager (''It''s The Falling in Love'') which, though they make up the album''s relatively lightweight second half, were canny choices clearly intended to enhance the record''s soul/funk/pop crossover appeal. Again, this would act as a template for 'Thriller'.

So if you''ve never dug deeper into this exemplar of the pop music idiom, now''s the time to educate yourself.

Addendum: Engineer Bruce Swedien has written a book recounting his work with Michael Jackson in some detail, which is to be released imminently and should provide welcome relief from the raft of hateful hack job biographies written in the wake of Jackson''s passing.