Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: rick wakeman

Fusion Or Prog?

Some folks think about the Big Questions. World peace, shit like that. Not us, Enthusiasts. We wallow in slapdashery and detail-work. We are not that guy with the exceedingly foreign name and beard, Slobodan Victuals or whatever, no. We will waste our days on hargle-bargle cuz we know that there are no Big Answers, but it is awful fun to argue about Tiny Nonsense.

Join me in some Tiny Nonsense, won’t you?

VOCALS? If someone’s singing, then it’s PROG. If someone’s singing about chess or a yogi or the Battle of Thermopylae, then it’s DEFINITELY PROG. Vocals get in the way of virtuosity.

WHO’S IN CHARGE? If the guitar player is in charge of the band, then it’s PROG. If a keyboardist who used to play for Miles Davis is in charge, then it’s FUSION. If the drummer is in charge, then it’s INCONTROVERTIBLY FUSION.

DOES BRITANNIA RULE? PROG is from the ANZAC countries. FUSION is American.

BLACK GUY? If there’s a black guy in the band, then it’s FUSION. (That probably had more to do with the UK/US split than anything.)

DID THE KEYBOARDIST QUIT THE GROUP SO HE COULD SOLO OVER AN ICE CAPADE? That’s PROG, man. That’s some of the PROGGIEST shit I’ve ever heard of.

SPRECHEN SIE DEUTSCH? Ha-HA! Trick question! If the band speaks German, then clearly it’s KRAUTROCK. Fooled you, fucker!

CAPE STATUS If you’re in a FUSION band and you show up for the gig wearing a cape, you get fired. Let’s just make this simple: If you are allowed to get away with any Rick Wakeman-style bullshit, then you are in a PROG band.

GOOP ON YA GRINCH? If you goop on ya grinch, then you’re PROG. If you do NOT goop on ya grinch, then you’re FUSION.

Excuse me.

Mm?

What in the name of sweet sweaty fuck does “goop on ya grinch” mean?

I dunno. I dunno what it means, I dunno where it came from, and I don’t know whether it’s offensive or not. Someone said it on the innertubes and now it’s in my head.

Leave it there.

NEVER!

Better Than Roses On Your Piano

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afHQQhig9BY[/embedyt]

That’s the Hammond B3 organ, played by Jimmy Smith in honor of Al Green’s birthday. (Do not get Al Green hot grits for his birthday.) Before laptops full of sounds, and MIDI, or even analog synths, there was the instrument you are legally required to refer to as “the mighty B3” at least once while writing about it.

The Hammond organ originated because people couldn’t afford pipe organs. In defense of the pipe organs: they pretty much have to be pricey. A pipe organ is both labor and material-intensive, and then requires constant maintenance and you also need to build the building around it. This is out of reach for most churches, especially smaller American churches, but a relatively thin and quiet piano wouldn’t do, either. Pianos are for thinking; for praying, you need an organ.

So, in 1935, a guy named Laurens Hammond invented this:

hammond b3 organ leslie

Okay, not that one. That’s the B3, which was introduced in ’54, but it has all the features of the original design: two 61-note keyboards, bass pedals, drawbars for the tone, and the iconic Leslie rotating speaker. Inside the guts of the thing are tonewheels: little metal spinners next to a pickup that generated a given frequency. Speaking of spinning, the Leslie is not called a rotating speaker euphemistically: that sucker has a motor in it.

This naturally made the instrument unspeakably heavy. Combined, the organ and speaker weighed three tons, more if the crew was stashing their drugs in it, but heft wasn’t a concern for Mr. Hammond in his design; these things were not intended to be moved. The guy came to fix it, rather than you bringing it in for repairs.

The B3 is complicated, if you play it right: the tonewheels only do “on” and “off” so you control the volume with your foot, plus you’re heel-and-toeing the bass line, and also playing two keyboards simultaneously while fucking around with the drawbars. And since this is the past we’re talking about, you were smoking a cigarette while you played.

Plus, they were expensive: none of Garcia’s costly guitars could begin to reach the cost of the B3. When the Dead upgraded Pig from the piercing and cheesy Vox organ he was originally saddled with, a new one was three grand. Figure the Dead got it used for two: that’s $13,000.

(And though the Boys had a habit of picking up shady equipment, the Hammond must have been acquired from a legitimate source rather than in a “cash” deal with a “friend.” It was repossessed right off the stage in late ’70, and things you buy from drug dealers don’t get repossessed, only stuff from actual stores.)

Keith was terrified of the thing, preferring his grand piano and Fender Rhodes to the point of obstinacy, but when Brent joined the band, the road crew dug the old girl out and Brent could truly play the fuck out of that beast.

brent hammond rhodes
Brent didn’t have a piano; more correctly, the band wouldn’t give him a piano. This was a plan that reached its logical conclusion when, after Brent died, they hired a guy to decide what Vince’s sounds would be. (And Garcia specifically forbade him from playing with a Hammond tone.)

Also:

“Precarious, where should I put this amplifier?”

“On top of another amplifier.”

“How?”

“Set it down in the least stable way allowed by its shape.”

“Gotcha.”

Now, though, the Dead (Or What’s Left Of ‘Em) have over-compensated and have adopted a laissez-faire policy towards the question “How much room does the keyboardist get in the truck?” and this now happens in cities across America:

jeff chimenti keyboards overhead

Enthusiasts, you will note my long-standing love for Jeff Chimenti. I don’t need 50 shades of gray, just one: Jeff Chimenti. If Jeff Chimenti and I were playing Star Wars in the schoolyard, I would let him be Han. He might be pound-for-pound the best keyboardist that’s ever been in any version of the Dead: he plays the piano as well as Keith; and the organ as well as Brent, and that’s saying something.  Those two were motherfuckers. (Jeff also makes distracting calliope noises as well as TC or Vince.)

But, holy shit, is that too much keyboard. That’s the Full Wakeman. If Jeff Chimenti wants to continue having that much keyboard around him, then he should be further surrounded by ice skaters dressed as Knights of the Round Table. This is hubris, Jeff Chimenti, and you are flying too close to the stage lights.

Although, this is truly the Grateful Dead thing to do. The truth is that the sounds generated by each of those instruments can be reproduced now so faithfully that maybe 1% of the population could tell the difference, and each sound triggered by one keyboard. Grand pianos, B3’s, Fender Rhodeseseses: heavy as shit and finicky. The humidity matters, and they need professional care.

Plus, that is Brent’s B3 organ/Leslie speaker combo, and it belongs onstage. And if it’s onstage, someone might as well play it. (The Rhodes and the piano are of unknown–to me, at least–provenance and perhaps someone could fill us in. Keith’s piano at least one Stealie inlaid in it, so I don’t think that’s it.)

I retract my assertion: Jeff Chimenti is playing the proper amount of keyboards. In fact, I propose another two or three be suspended above him, and that the floor-piano from Big be installed beneath him.

Ebony And Ivory

The Dead had so many options after Brent’s all-bullshit-aside tragic death and they went with the worst. They apparently had this weird did-you-call-me/should-we-call thing with Merl that is far too Mean Girls to relate in good conscience and more’s the pity because maybe Merl would’ve kicked Garcia’s ass just a little, being a straight-laced man and proud deacon of the Mt. Holy Oak of Zion First Macadamia Church of the Redeemer in Christ. Plus, the Dead would have had a black guy in it. And as commercials have taught us, people hang out exclusively in carefully diverse groups.

There were others they could have at least auditioned. Elton John was hitting a rough patch at the time, perhaps he could have helped out. Something tells me Bobby would love to play Crocodile Rock. The flaw in the plan is that the first time Sir Elton threw one of his legendary tantrums, Billy would punch him in the dick, because this time I’ve gotta stand up for Billy: grown men throwing tantrums deserve a thorough dickpunching.

Rick Wakeman was also in a bit of a fallow period since wasting all of the money in Britain on an ice show to play arpeggios to. I have a feeling that the first time Rick opened his spangly cape to play two of his army of keyboards at the same time, Garcia would freak out and think he was a dragon and set him on fire. So, that’s a no for Rick Wakeman.

Stevie Wonder wouldn’t have worked because Phil still owes him $60 from a poker game and is ducking him.

Planet Dumb

Mickey once convinced his father to retool a music store into an all-drum extravaganza named Drum City. Mickey once made an album called Planet Drum. Mickey was not well-rounded.

The unholy spawn of Oates and Baba-Booey, Mickey Hart was the Other One of the Dead’s rhythm section. Astonishingly, he also manages to be the silliest man in a group full of deeply, almost constitutionally silly people. There are no stories concerning Mickey in any of the multitude of books about the Dead that do not end one of two ways: with fortunes disappearing in exceedingly foreseeable ways, or Mickey attacking another human being in public.

Money was allergic to Mickey, in the sense that anytime he got near any appreciable amount of cash, it would flee into the night, generally after gathering up any other money that just happened to be in the area. If Mickey had gone on a tour of San Simeon, it would have burned down immediately. We can only assume that, even though he grew up in the Bay Area, Bill Gates never happened upon Mickey Hart. We know this because had it occurred, Gates would today be gulping dongs to get paint to huff. Such is Mickey’s magic, because he thought big.

Rick Wakeman once took a book of finger-limbering exercises, renamed it after King Arthur, and rented a hockey arena so otherwise unemployable 35-year-old former Olympic ice dancing hopefuls could salchow their way through three hours of arpeggios played by a man in a spangly cape. Mickey thought Rick Wakeman was a piker. In 1984, Mickey spent 2.5 million trying to get all of Hands Across America to clap along to a 15-beat bouzouki rhythm. The album was never released.

As for the random–yet entirely predictable–violence, perhaps you’re saying, “But rock music has always been fraught with explosive personalities.  What about the fights between the Davies brothers or Daltrey and Townshend or Metallica and their reputation?” Yes, yes: all true. Except you will notice that the examples, and all the other fightin’ twosomes you’re thinking of are basically long-running personality disputes. Sure, the Gallagher brothers are, statistically speaking, punching each other as I write this, but if they weren’t rock stars, they would be doing the same thing. If they were Liam and Noel’s Plumbing Service and you called them, your house would be rapidly filling with feces as they rolled around on the floor biting each others’ necks and using their adorable Brummie accents to transform the word ‘cunt’ into something that sounds like a pet name.

That wasn’t Mickey. Mickey tackled producers in studios. He choked crew members in delicatessans. Accountants in auto-supply shops. Florists in winnebagos. The only person, I believe, he didn’t attack was his good ol’ pop. You know his dad: the guy that stole so much money from the Dead that instead of precisely calculating the figure, the FBI just rounded it up to “all of it.” The rat in the proverbial drain ditch.

Every time I see a picture of Mickey at his ranch, all I can picture is the guy raising his camera and Mickey going, “Wait!  Let me get my serape!”