The last time I bought a turntable was this weekend.
Forty one years ago.
My parents told me I could buy the stereo of my dreams as a college graduation present, but having the traveling gene I declined, until I ended up in Los Angeles going to law school and took them up on their offer. Actually, I spent more time listening to music than studying, but that's another story. I bought a Sansui integrated amp with 110 watts a channel and a pair of JBL L100's, the only thing was my turntable was not up to the task, the Dual 1218 I'd bought while at Middlebury to preserve my vinyl. That's what they don't tell you, if you want it to sound good you cannot use one of those cheapie turntables, you cannot touch the grooves, you've got to respect your records.
And most people way back when did not.
But that Dual 1218 had a speed problem. So I went back to Pacific Stereo and dropped some cash on a Panasonic SL-1300. Most people know the 1200. Well, the 1200 was fully manual, the 1300 was fully automatic, and therefore more expensive. In other words the SL-1300 would drop the needle on your records all by its lonesome, and return to home base when it was all done. And this Panasonic turntable stood me well for decades, until it was eclipsed by CDs and then MP3s and streaming. I still occasionally use it, but when Micah Sheveloff offered an EAT B-Sharp turntable, I took him up on his offer.
Now the first question was whether I wanted help setting it up. I vacillated, said no and then yes, depending upon the information coming in in e-mail. I thought I could do it myself, and ultimately they said I could do it myself, so today I tackled the project. It took all afternoon. And stunningly, IT WORKS!
It's weird to be jetted back to the past. It's so familiar, but deep in your memory bank. First and foremost you've got to clear a space. My rack is totally full. What do I punt? I ultimately decided to put my Polk XM tuner in storage. And then I had to disconnect the Panasonic. And you forget the rat's nest of wires, the ground wire screwed to the amplifier. And it's dark and crowded and making room for my new turntable was effort enough.
And then I tackled assembly.
You used to dream of upgrading your stereo system. I did not do it the way most people did. I sacrificed completeness for quality. In other words, I lived for a year without an FM tuner so I could get a powerful enough amplifier. When I added FM, I bought the best unit Yamaha made, and then ultimately a Nakamichi 582 for cassettes. Funny how those machines were so expensive and nearly worthless these days, but vinyl lives on.
And I kept mine. All of it.
So the first thing is to take the new turntable out of the box. I decided to set it up on the kitchen table, where there was the most light. But the damn thing wouldn't stand up straight. That's when I realized it was sans feet. I found none in the box, but the manual said they were in there. I ultimately found them ensconced in a piece of foam.
Then I had to install the platter. Well, three of them. It all went together seamlessly, but I could not screw on the record clamp. And I didn't want to force it, but it made no sense. And I'm getting frustrated when I wonder...could I have installed the sub-platter upside down?
That turned out to be true.
So I took the thing apart, installed the sub-platter correctly, then the main platter and the felt platter, and then the record clamp would screw on and it was time to balance the tonearm, i.e. set the vertical tracking force.
They included a manual gauge, but also sent me a digital gauge, which I could not make work. I reversed the batteries and it went on. But I could not get the weight right. That's when I realized it wasn't set to grams, I had to change from ounces to grams, and then it worked. And it was stunning how precise it was as I was manually turning the counterweight, a blend of yesterday and today.
And the unit came with an Ortofon 2M Blue cartridge, so I didn't have to set azimuth and all the other arcanities of Stanton and Shures way back when.
But when it came time to set skating force...
The wire was broken.
I couldn't quit. Couldn't ask for help. I wanted to figure it out. Turns out they included two additional wires so I went about installing one, after losing both, spending nearly half an hour looking for them before I found them on the floor, imagine looking for four inches of fishing line...GOOD LUCK!
And now I'm marveling at what a Rube Goldberg contraption a turntable is. Usually our technology is hidden, we push a button and it just works, we're not used to mechanical devices, never mind their less than perfect tolerances. We were glad to get rid of records, not only because of turntables, but the vinyl itself. There was no such thing as a perfect record, they were all warped or skipped. And even if your turntable was dialed in perfectly, there were the inherent limitations in the vinyl format and the issue of needle angle which that old Garrard tried to conquer, but with so much friction the audiophiles pooh-poohed it.
But if something's recorded analog and reproduced analog, there's a special sound and...
Don't buy one of those USB turntables. The sound is horrific. If you're gonna play, play for real, buy good stuff, but it's expensive. And inconvenient. Which is why stereo is now a hobby. Used to be for everybody, now mostly it's for males with too much money pursuing a sound the musicians themselves often cannot hear, they certainly don't own systems of similar quality.
The B-Sharp turntable is fully manual. Which means, once again, you've got to lift the needle onto the record and pick it back up after a side has played. But it does have a tonearm lifter, so you can drop the needle where you want it, but...
You've got to turn the table off to remove the clamp and record. And after placing a new record upon the felt you've got to screw the clamp back down, turn the table back on, and then drop the needle. This is the opposite of Alexa.
Forget those kids buying vinyl as souvenirs, many of whom don't even own a turntable, or if they do, it's a piece of crap.
Forget the digital recordings transferred to vinyl. Best if the original is analog, i.e. tape.
Which means you're gonna go back to your old records. Or new pressings thereof. And that's an experience unto itself. You scroll through the old discs and remember when you bought them, what you were doing, who you hung with, and when you drop the needle...
I really didn't expect the B-Sharp to work. I've assembled a ton of audio gear, but this was the biggest challenge I've ever had, I haven't gone on a journey like this since assembling a barbeque grill with nearly no instructions twelve and a half years ago. The truth is the person who bought it should have had it assembled at Home Depot. And if you buy one of these B-Sharps it will come with an installer, but you won't get the sense of accomplishment I had. After plugging its cables into my phono pre-amp, screwing its ground to my amp, firing up said amp, turning on the table, dropping the needle and hearing...
Chipmunks. It turned out I had the belt on the wrong groove of the drive pulley, so I had to pull the whole thing apart once again, but when I got it right, VOILA!
It's hard to describe vinyl. The way it pulls you through the speakers. You're not just listening, you're involved. Humans make this music, and suddenly the organ sounds like someone is inside the speaker playing it, the guitars occupy space and the singer is singing to you.
Not that every record is a revelation. I put on Aerosmith's "Rocks" and it was strangely distant. Maybe it was a bad pressing. This is not digital, which can be replicated with no loss a zillion times.
But then I dropped the needle on Bob Dylan's "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" from "Bringing It All Back Home" and my jaw dropped. It was so intimate, it was like he was RIGHT THERE!
And since then I've been experimenting. "Physical Graffiti" was glorious, not only in sound, but packaging. With the windows in the cover.
Right now I'm playing Santana's "Abraxas." Carlos's guitar has got that richness we heard at the Fillmore, only this time it's in my home. That's what we used to do, save all our money so we could buy the best stereo to get closer to the music, when it wasn't just entertainment, but life itself.
The B-Sharp is not cheap. In fact, it's $1,595.
Then again, I just employed the US Inflation Calculator (http://usinflationcalculator.com) and that Panasonic SL-1300 which was $300 back in '76, would cost $1,300.51 today, which is almost the same price as the B-Sharp. We expect our devices to drop in price, but when they're built by humans, in this case in Czech Republic, they cost.
So this isn't an item for everyone. Unfortunately, too many people who own one will be enthralled with their gear more than the music, but if you came over to my house and dropped the needle on one of these records...
You'd be wowed.
http://www.europeanaudioteam.com/en/eat-b-sharp-turntable-000145.html
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Friday, 24 November 2017
Thanksgiving
We all end up the same. We spend our entire lives trying to individuate. We're climbing the ladder, separating ourselves from the pack, moving on up, but then we're old and broken down, clinging to memories of what once was while the Big C or some other health issue grabs our ankles while we're least expecting it to and we fall down into an underworld of people we thought were different but now find out are exactly the same.
I ate too many chips. Thanksgiving is the Bermuda Triangle of holidays. Since you're good the rest of the week, the rest of the year, you feel anything you eat on this holiday will have no effect, especially since everybody else is overeating. But it does. I can testify to a sugar high right now. Come on, you've got to taste all the desserts. I'm the Fielding Mellish of life, I want to do everything once, want to partake of everything once, sure, home can feel like an old worn out shoe, there's virtue in familiarity, but there's excitement in the new and different. Hell, I went to this conference in Ojai last week and didn't know a soul, and what it reminded me most of was the first week of college. Do you remember that? You'd worked so hard to get in, and you showed up and felt like a fish out of water. Everybody was equal, you had no preconceptions. The ones you talked to at first you never talked to again. And the ones who were your true friends took six months to meet. But first you were anxious. Was this all gonna work out? And then you went for your first holiday back home and couldn't wait to get back to school, your life had changed just that fast.
I remember that first Thanksgiving. We went to my relatives' in Stamford. It was raining. Just above freezing. And I was wearing a blue turtleneck my mother had bought me, it was more of a sweater than a shirt, and it itched and I felt internalized. No one was talking to me and I was making conversation with others before I got worn out and pooped out, thought of college.
Thanksgiving was at our house growing up. Remember the jello molds? Actually, I hate them. But they were always there. And who decided to mix sweet potatoes with marshmallows, was that handed down from the Pilgrims?
And entertainment was provided by Big Al, the electronics dealer, the richest person we knew, before all the wealth went to techies and financiers. He would sit on the couch and testify, riff, pontificate and be sarcastic, and talk about the games, since he had money riding on them. And I felt solidarity with Big Al, he'd escaped, he had an apartment in the city, he was no longer tied down to the suburbs. I wanted to escape. Now if you live in L.A. you don't. Seemingly no one grows up in Los Angeles and leaves, the weather and lifestyle are just too good. They might go away for school, but they come back. Whereas when you grow up in the suburbs...I wanted to live the life I saw on TV, read about in newspapers and books, I wanted to feel alive.
And when I moved out west the first year my leg was broken and I was stranded in L.A. and went to a friend of my sister's apartment for turkey. My sister doesn't talk to that woman anymore. Strange how life is, you come together, then you come apart. Although I think you then come back together again, because what tore you apart is no longer relevant, not that big a deal, and you share those memories.
Then there was that Thanksgiving in Utah, at that couple's house who I can't remember the names of right now, they were the only ones who were married, I came after getting a stitch in my lip after a freak accident at Alta. Banging the bumps in the powder, when you can't really see them, during a storm, my skis came up when my head was coming down and my lip landed with such force on the top of my pole that I broke it open. I didn't fall, but I was spitting blood into the snow, so I went to the clinic. I still have a bump in my lip today, this was before everybody went to the plastic surgeon to ensure perfection. But what I remember was this was the first Thanksgiving of my friends, my people, not the adults.
And from there the holiday rotated houses until it ended up at Robert and Kate's. We always stayed late. I'm the last to leave. I love being with people, I don't want to be left out. And after the food was served, there'd always be an activity, I remember the year we watched "Thin Man" movies, lying on the floor. They don't live in that house anymore and Robert is no longer with us and my wife is long gone, but it feels like yesterday.
And then it became a family holiday once again. My mother and little sister would fly out from back east but after dinner we'd go to Kate's house, and recently Lisa's, where we played charades. Those seemingly dumb games, they're the essence of life.
But like I said, so many people have fallen by the wayside. And the older I get the less I want to service people. Why am I always making others feel good at the expense of myself?
So today we drove deep into Orange County, for a huge affair at my nephew's house. My family was there, sans my dear departed dad, who left the planet twenty five years ago, he used to cut the bird with an electric knife, and my mother is gonna be ninety one in a couple of weeks and a new generation is just starting, my nephew's daughter is two, and I wonder how I fit into all this.
And then I go to Kate's new abode with a new husband and it fits like a glove.
But on the way there, between affairs, I quizzed Felice on where she spent Thanksgiving, and then I recited where I'd been every year and realized how much I'd been through.
And at Kate's it was my friends, I felt comfortable, I was telling my story, and then an old acquaintance told his.
Now the thing about stories is most people don't volunteer the good ones, they hold them back until they believe they're going to be heard, understood, there's nothing worse than baring your soul and having the listener get up, or switch conversations, or lose context. We wall want to be listened to! Of course there are others who are blaring it out 24/7, but we start to tune them out. Everything they say they believe is important, it's overbearing. But then there's the person who is quiet and then drops a bomb.
We were talking about our health. Well, I was. I'm sick of having to say I'm great every time someone asks me how I'm doing, so I told this man the truth...
And then he told me his.
It's a quid quo pro world.
He had cancer. Came on when I saw him last. He waited too long to go to the doctor. It spread. The treatment had side effects. He'd prayed to God.
And I realized I'd had the same experience. Which is a lonely one. You want someone to tell the story to but you don't want to be disappointed. But I'll tell you this, the ones you expect to come through in a crisis don't, and the ones you don't do. Funny how that works. It's got less to do with assets than good breeding.
And thereafter Kate and Elizabeth and I caught up, on everybody who used to come to Thanksgiving, who we used to know and in some cases still do.
There are quirks. The beautiful one is dumped. The mismatched ones stay together. And you marvel at life, how does it happen, how do we end up where we do? Hell, I wouldn't even know these people if I hadn't talked to Robert at UCLA Extension. Life is full of these random moments. You don't know someone and then you do.
And to be honest, I've shirked so many grown-up responsibilities. Sure, I got married, but as she said after, she "tricked me into it." And I won't bother you with that long story but I will say I've never owned real estate and I've never hosted Thanksgiving. Never felt up to it. Or maybe my OCD made me too uptight about my stuff. Or maybe I thought no one would come. And I certainly didn't want to be Broadway Danny Rose.
And now it's almost too late. Traditions are set in stone. The wheel turns faster, the meals are less satisfying, even though you still overeat, and you start to ask yourself, is that all there is?
We're hounded by our parents to do well in school.
We push ahead in careers.
And then we all end up in the same place. Unable to work anymore because the industry's passed us by, we no longer care about being hip.
We're left with our memories.
Which make up a life.
They're all that's left us.
I ate too many chips. Thanksgiving is the Bermuda Triangle of holidays. Since you're good the rest of the week, the rest of the year, you feel anything you eat on this holiday will have no effect, especially since everybody else is overeating. But it does. I can testify to a sugar high right now. Come on, you've got to taste all the desserts. I'm the Fielding Mellish of life, I want to do everything once, want to partake of everything once, sure, home can feel like an old worn out shoe, there's virtue in familiarity, but there's excitement in the new and different. Hell, I went to this conference in Ojai last week and didn't know a soul, and what it reminded me most of was the first week of college. Do you remember that? You'd worked so hard to get in, and you showed up and felt like a fish out of water. Everybody was equal, you had no preconceptions. The ones you talked to at first you never talked to again. And the ones who were your true friends took six months to meet. But first you were anxious. Was this all gonna work out? And then you went for your first holiday back home and couldn't wait to get back to school, your life had changed just that fast.
I remember that first Thanksgiving. We went to my relatives' in Stamford. It was raining. Just above freezing. And I was wearing a blue turtleneck my mother had bought me, it was more of a sweater than a shirt, and it itched and I felt internalized. No one was talking to me and I was making conversation with others before I got worn out and pooped out, thought of college.
Thanksgiving was at our house growing up. Remember the jello molds? Actually, I hate them. But they were always there. And who decided to mix sweet potatoes with marshmallows, was that handed down from the Pilgrims?
And entertainment was provided by Big Al, the electronics dealer, the richest person we knew, before all the wealth went to techies and financiers. He would sit on the couch and testify, riff, pontificate and be sarcastic, and talk about the games, since he had money riding on them. And I felt solidarity with Big Al, he'd escaped, he had an apartment in the city, he was no longer tied down to the suburbs. I wanted to escape. Now if you live in L.A. you don't. Seemingly no one grows up in Los Angeles and leaves, the weather and lifestyle are just too good. They might go away for school, but they come back. Whereas when you grow up in the suburbs...I wanted to live the life I saw on TV, read about in newspapers and books, I wanted to feel alive.
And when I moved out west the first year my leg was broken and I was stranded in L.A. and went to a friend of my sister's apartment for turkey. My sister doesn't talk to that woman anymore. Strange how life is, you come together, then you come apart. Although I think you then come back together again, because what tore you apart is no longer relevant, not that big a deal, and you share those memories.
Then there was that Thanksgiving in Utah, at that couple's house who I can't remember the names of right now, they were the only ones who were married, I came after getting a stitch in my lip after a freak accident at Alta. Banging the bumps in the powder, when you can't really see them, during a storm, my skis came up when my head was coming down and my lip landed with such force on the top of my pole that I broke it open. I didn't fall, but I was spitting blood into the snow, so I went to the clinic. I still have a bump in my lip today, this was before everybody went to the plastic surgeon to ensure perfection. But what I remember was this was the first Thanksgiving of my friends, my people, not the adults.
And from there the holiday rotated houses until it ended up at Robert and Kate's. We always stayed late. I'm the last to leave. I love being with people, I don't want to be left out. And after the food was served, there'd always be an activity, I remember the year we watched "Thin Man" movies, lying on the floor. They don't live in that house anymore and Robert is no longer with us and my wife is long gone, but it feels like yesterday.
And then it became a family holiday once again. My mother and little sister would fly out from back east but after dinner we'd go to Kate's house, and recently Lisa's, where we played charades. Those seemingly dumb games, they're the essence of life.
But like I said, so many people have fallen by the wayside. And the older I get the less I want to service people. Why am I always making others feel good at the expense of myself?
So today we drove deep into Orange County, for a huge affair at my nephew's house. My family was there, sans my dear departed dad, who left the planet twenty five years ago, he used to cut the bird with an electric knife, and my mother is gonna be ninety one in a couple of weeks and a new generation is just starting, my nephew's daughter is two, and I wonder how I fit into all this.
And then I go to Kate's new abode with a new husband and it fits like a glove.
But on the way there, between affairs, I quizzed Felice on where she spent Thanksgiving, and then I recited where I'd been every year and realized how much I'd been through.
And at Kate's it was my friends, I felt comfortable, I was telling my story, and then an old acquaintance told his.
Now the thing about stories is most people don't volunteer the good ones, they hold them back until they believe they're going to be heard, understood, there's nothing worse than baring your soul and having the listener get up, or switch conversations, or lose context. We wall want to be listened to! Of course there are others who are blaring it out 24/7, but we start to tune them out. Everything they say they believe is important, it's overbearing. But then there's the person who is quiet and then drops a bomb.
We were talking about our health. Well, I was. I'm sick of having to say I'm great every time someone asks me how I'm doing, so I told this man the truth...
And then he told me his.
It's a quid quo pro world.
He had cancer. Came on when I saw him last. He waited too long to go to the doctor. It spread. The treatment had side effects. He'd prayed to God.
And I realized I'd had the same experience. Which is a lonely one. You want someone to tell the story to but you don't want to be disappointed. But I'll tell you this, the ones you expect to come through in a crisis don't, and the ones you don't do. Funny how that works. It's got less to do with assets than good breeding.
And thereafter Kate and Elizabeth and I caught up, on everybody who used to come to Thanksgiving, who we used to know and in some cases still do.
There are quirks. The beautiful one is dumped. The mismatched ones stay together. And you marvel at life, how does it happen, how do we end up where we do? Hell, I wouldn't even know these people if I hadn't talked to Robert at UCLA Extension. Life is full of these random moments. You don't know someone and then you do.
And to be honest, I've shirked so many grown-up responsibilities. Sure, I got married, but as she said after, she "tricked me into it." And I won't bother you with that long story but I will say I've never owned real estate and I've never hosted Thanksgiving. Never felt up to it. Or maybe my OCD made me too uptight about my stuff. Or maybe I thought no one would come. And I certainly didn't want to be Broadway Danny Rose.
And now it's almost too late. Traditions are set in stone. The wheel turns faster, the meals are less satisfying, even though you still overeat, and you start to ask yourself, is that all there is?
We're hounded by our parents to do well in school.
We push ahead in careers.
And then we all end up in the same place. Unable to work anymore because the industry's passed us by, we no longer care about being hip.
We're left with our memories.
Which make up a life.
They're all that's left us.
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Monday, 20 November 2017
Re-Malcolm
Dear Bob, I have just read your article on Malcolm, and I must admit it moved me deeply.
I stood side by side with Malcolm on stage for 32 years, and I knew he was a genius and a special man, thank you for saying all the things I have wanted the world to know all those
years ago.
Your right about Malcolm not wanting the Lime light, he hated it, but he was the spirit of the band, and every time we started a new album I couldn't wait to hear the new riffs that had
been conjured up.
Once again Bob , thank you for a beautiful piece , I was proud to have called him a friend.
Cheers Brian Johnson.
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I stood side by side with Malcolm on stage for 32 years, and I knew he was a genius and a special man, thank you for saying all the things I have wanted the world to know all those
years ago.
Your right about Malcolm not wanting the Lime light, he hated it, but he was the spirit of the band, and every time we started a new album I couldn't wait to hear the new riffs that had
been conjured up.
Once again Bob , thank you for a beautiful piece , I was proud to have called him a friend.
Cheers Brian Johnson.
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Sunday, 19 November 2017
Macolm Young
"You Shook Me All Night Long."
We don't have records like this anymore, from unheralded acts that end up being ubiquitous, liked by everyone, living forever.
Well, maybe "Despacito" fits this bill, Luis Fonsi has been working in the trenches forever and a lot of people know it and maybe it's a harbinger of what's to come, Latin music, then again although AC/DC heralded a resurgence of hard rock, the band was singular, almost no one else sounded like them.
The average bloke didn't think about Malcolm. He was just another short guy on stage if they knew what the band looked like at all. But they knew the music, everybody knows "You Shook Me All Night Long," which implored you to buy the album "Back In Black," whereupon you went through the looking glass into a sound that felt so good you could not lift the needle from the LP, unless it was to start it all over again.
It was the black cover. It was the gong at the beginning. It was the indelible riff that had you nodding your head in hypnotic rhythm, and that's what Malcolm played, rhythm, and a minute into "Hells Bells" he started to chug, it was like a freight train leaving the station and onboard you could not think about anything else, texting a friend, you were along for the ride and you didn't want to get off.
And then the track segued into "Shoot To Thrill." It's like that train turned into a roller coaster and you'd been going up the hill, slowly, pulled forward by the chain, and now you were set free, going downhill, defying gravity. Back when albums were just that, a compilation of tunes that was rarely cherry-picked.
And the second side began with the title track, "Back In Black," just as powerful as the opener on the other side, with its sing-songy chorus that kept your head moving with the devil horns thrust in the air. This is where the tribes diverged, before we were all listening to the same sounds, but now new acts got harder and appealed to a more blue collar audience and the new metal was not for everybody, but AC/DC was, a new kind of Beatles, less comprehensive, more one note, but testing limits and pushing their way into our hearts nevertheless.
But by this time there was a different lead singer and a new producer. Mutt Lange worked his magic first with AC/DC, before he moved on to Def Leppard. But AC/DC had success before him, most prominently with "It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock 'N' Roll), which featured a bagpipe, but was built upon the aforementioned rhythm guitar, chunking along, making you feel so good, and that's what rock music should do, elate you and make you feel powerful, that the rest of life does not matter.
The building blocks were there before Mutt, he just pushed it over the top.
Let there be rock, that's what AC/DC declared. And like every Aussie band they were road-tested, so when you went to see them live you were not disappointed, it was an aural assault, overcoming you with pure sound, no trappings were necessary.
And the funny thing is, after the relationship with Mutt went sour, when the band was on the verge of becoming an oldies act, "Who Made Who" emerged from the speakers, and although the twitching lead is indelible, once again it's the rhythm guitar that sets the pace, that locks you into the groove, the way bass and drums do in most bands, but in AC/DC it was Malcolm who was most essential, who was irreplaceable.
And the formula was ultimately repeated with "Thunderstruck," proving the band was not a studio concoction, that it could do it all by its lonesome.
And when you went to see the band live it was not nostalgia, not a convention of denizens from the suburbs experiencing a nice night out, rather it was still dangerous, you didn't see AC/DC in the tabloids, it's almost like the members didn't exist outside the band, there were no charity dinners, no jet-setting with models, just the music.
And that's what we lament, the loss of this ethos. So simple, yet seemingly unattainable today, when every act is looking to the trappings and willing to do anything to achieve them. AC/DC always led with its music, it fought in the trenches, experienced the highway to hell, and then suddenly emerged the biggest band on earth. I'd call it artist development, but it was something different. The sound was always the same, it was just refined, it was like an adolescent turning into an adult. It was always the same person underneath, no matter who the band worked with, it sounded like them.
And now there's still a band plying the boards with that name, that does boffo at the b.o., testimony to our infection with its sound, but every original member other than Angus is gone.
And you can laugh about this, talk about how the Eagles are still touring without Glenn Frey, but these are musicians, they don't know what else to do, and the music means just that much to us, we go and are reminded of who we once were, how the tunes greased the skids of our lives, how this wasn't entertainment, but life itself.
So now Malcolm Young is gone. Not only the player of that rhythm guitar, but the cowriter of the songs. But honestly, this is not a surprise. He had dementia, he had to retire from the road. This is not sudden like Bowie or Prince, we'd already waved goodbye to Malcolm.
But not to rock music. Not to ourselves.
Today's rock music is not for everybody. It's niche. To its detriment. It's hard to get into and hard to convince others to partake of. Whereas one listen to "You Shook Me All Night Long" closed you.
And Malcolm Young was only 64.
Hey, that's my age!
And I hope I get a couple more decades, maybe not. But now my generation is passing. Not through misadventure, but life itself, the twists and turns, one minute you're drinking a beer and staying up all night with the music cranked, the next you're in the doctor's office with a pain being explained that you've got this ailment that could not only waylay you, but kill you.
It's the nature of life.
But we thought we were gonna live forever. The music too.
And the thing is so much of the music has been forgotten. The younger generation knows the Beatles, but the Stones more by legend, as for their compatriots...most of today's generation has never even heard the names.
But they know AC/DC.
The records live on in jukeboxes. They're beloved by hipsters and hicks. Those on the coast and the heartlands. Those rich and poor. They're so basic, sans trappings, you need to bring nothing to the party, the music provides it all.
And it still does.
Which is why Axl wants to sing with the band. Why we still play the records. We want to get closer to this glorious noise, it makes us feel so good, it makes us feel alive.
But Malcolm Young is dead.
But the sound he helped architect lives on.
You're out on a lark. You think it's about now. A momentary diversion. You're not thinking about legacy, you just want to get paid, you just want to continue doing it, and then the heavens open and you're anointed and you become a rock god.
Malcolm Young was one of them. He's anchoring the band in heaven, strumming the strings of that Gretsch as we sit here.
Can you hear it?
Oh, maybe it's coming from below, shaking the ground we're standing upon.
Those are hells bells.
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We don't have records like this anymore, from unheralded acts that end up being ubiquitous, liked by everyone, living forever.
Well, maybe "Despacito" fits this bill, Luis Fonsi has been working in the trenches forever and a lot of people know it and maybe it's a harbinger of what's to come, Latin music, then again although AC/DC heralded a resurgence of hard rock, the band was singular, almost no one else sounded like them.
The average bloke didn't think about Malcolm. He was just another short guy on stage if they knew what the band looked like at all. But they knew the music, everybody knows "You Shook Me All Night Long," which implored you to buy the album "Back In Black," whereupon you went through the looking glass into a sound that felt so good you could not lift the needle from the LP, unless it was to start it all over again.
It was the black cover. It was the gong at the beginning. It was the indelible riff that had you nodding your head in hypnotic rhythm, and that's what Malcolm played, rhythm, and a minute into "Hells Bells" he started to chug, it was like a freight train leaving the station and onboard you could not think about anything else, texting a friend, you were along for the ride and you didn't want to get off.
And then the track segued into "Shoot To Thrill." It's like that train turned into a roller coaster and you'd been going up the hill, slowly, pulled forward by the chain, and now you were set free, going downhill, defying gravity. Back when albums were just that, a compilation of tunes that was rarely cherry-picked.
And the second side began with the title track, "Back In Black," just as powerful as the opener on the other side, with its sing-songy chorus that kept your head moving with the devil horns thrust in the air. This is where the tribes diverged, before we were all listening to the same sounds, but now new acts got harder and appealed to a more blue collar audience and the new metal was not for everybody, but AC/DC was, a new kind of Beatles, less comprehensive, more one note, but testing limits and pushing their way into our hearts nevertheless.
But by this time there was a different lead singer and a new producer. Mutt Lange worked his magic first with AC/DC, before he moved on to Def Leppard. But AC/DC had success before him, most prominently with "It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock 'N' Roll), which featured a bagpipe, but was built upon the aforementioned rhythm guitar, chunking along, making you feel so good, and that's what rock music should do, elate you and make you feel powerful, that the rest of life does not matter.
The building blocks were there before Mutt, he just pushed it over the top.
Let there be rock, that's what AC/DC declared. And like every Aussie band they were road-tested, so when you went to see them live you were not disappointed, it was an aural assault, overcoming you with pure sound, no trappings were necessary.
And the funny thing is, after the relationship with Mutt went sour, when the band was on the verge of becoming an oldies act, "Who Made Who" emerged from the speakers, and although the twitching lead is indelible, once again it's the rhythm guitar that sets the pace, that locks you into the groove, the way bass and drums do in most bands, but in AC/DC it was Malcolm who was most essential, who was irreplaceable.
And the formula was ultimately repeated with "Thunderstruck," proving the band was not a studio concoction, that it could do it all by its lonesome.
And when you went to see the band live it was not nostalgia, not a convention of denizens from the suburbs experiencing a nice night out, rather it was still dangerous, you didn't see AC/DC in the tabloids, it's almost like the members didn't exist outside the band, there were no charity dinners, no jet-setting with models, just the music.
And that's what we lament, the loss of this ethos. So simple, yet seemingly unattainable today, when every act is looking to the trappings and willing to do anything to achieve them. AC/DC always led with its music, it fought in the trenches, experienced the highway to hell, and then suddenly emerged the biggest band on earth. I'd call it artist development, but it was something different. The sound was always the same, it was just refined, it was like an adolescent turning into an adult. It was always the same person underneath, no matter who the band worked with, it sounded like them.
And now there's still a band plying the boards with that name, that does boffo at the b.o., testimony to our infection with its sound, but every original member other than Angus is gone.
And you can laugh about this, talk about how the Eagles are still touring without Glenn Frey, but these are musicians, they don't know what else to do, and the music means just that much to us, we go and are reminded of who we once were, how the tunes greased the skids of our lives, how this wasn't entertainment, but life itself.
So now Malcolm Young is gone. Not only the player of that rhythm guitar, but the cowriter of the songs. But honestly, this is not a surprise. He had dementia, he had to retire from the road. This is not sudden like Bowie or Prince, we'd already waved goodbye to Malcolm.
But not to rock music. Not to ourselves.
Today's rock music is not for everybody. It's niche. To its detriment. It's hard to get into and hard to convince others to partake of. Whereas one listen to "You Shook Me All Night Long" closed you.
And Malcolm Young was only 64.
Hey, that's my age!
And I hope I get a couple more decades, maybe not. But now my generation is passing. Not through misadventure, but life itself, the twists and turns, one minute you're drinking a beer and staying up all night with the music cranked, the next you're in the doctor's office with a pain being explained that you've got this ailment that could not only waylay you, but kill you.
It's the nature of life.
But we thought we were gonna live forever. The music too.
And the thing is so much of the music has been forgotten. The younger generation knows the Beatles, but the Stones more by legend, as for their compatriots...most of today's generation has never even heard the names.
But they know AC/DC.
The records live on in jukeboxes. They're beloved by hipsters and hicks. Those on the coast and the heartlands. Those rich and poor. They're so basic, sans trappings, you need to bring nothing to the party, the music provides it all.
And it still does.
Which is why Axl wants to sing with the band. Why we still play the records. We want to get closer to this glorious noise, it makes us feel so good, it makes us feel alive.
But Malcolm Young is dead.
But the sound he helped architect lives on.
You're out on a lark. You think it's about now. A momentary diversion. You're not thinking about legacy, you just want to get paid, you just want to continue doing it, and then the heavens open and you're anointed and you become a rock god.
Malcolm Young was one of them. He's anchoring the band in heaven, strumming the strings of that Gretsch as we sit here.
Can you hear it?
Oh, maybe it's coming from below, shaking the ground we're standing upon.
Those are hells bells.
--
Visit the archive: http://lefsetz.com/wordpress/
--
http://www.twitter.com/lefsetz
--
If you would like to subscribe to the LefsetzLetter,
http://www.lefsetz.com/lists/?p=subscribe&id=1
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Russell Simmons and Brett Ratner
"Russell Simmons and Brett Ratner face new allegations of sexual misconduct": http://lat.ms/2hAPiPQ
Sex is not the only thing they were entitled to.
Rock stars created the paradigm. Nobodies who became somebodies who could act with impunity. Prior to this, you had to be rich to get away with it. Fame helped too, but the rock stars were both. Which is why everybody wants to be a "rock star" today. There's the rock stars of tech, the rock stars of finance, only they're not, rock stars that is. Rock stars drew women to them based on their art, their songs, without them they were oftentimes dullards unable to speak to the opposite sex. Check history, seemingly every legend says he got into it so he could meet girls. That's the power of song, when done right, rock music is life itself.
But most people cannot become rock stars.
You also have to realize men are in competition. There is not the community of women, happy just to be a member of the group. No, men are constantly climbing the ladder, pushing others down, showing off, and when they get to the top, they think they're invulnerable. Like Harvey Weinstein. Forget that he did it, the fact that David Boies kept it out of the press undercuts our entire notion of society. We thought you paid for your sins. But you don't. If you're rich and famous you hire the best attorneys, who are thrilled to get paid and be members of the club, and you skate. Kinda like Brett Ratner. Everybody's entitled to a defense, but Ratner's attorney Martin Singer keeps bloviating that the accusations are false and is on a path to put questions in the public's brain to allow Mr. Ratner to go free. Do you think you could afford the services of Mr. Singer? Would he even want to represent you if you're a nobody? Give Louis C.K. credit, at least he admitted it. That's what people with good upbringings used to do, until the President himself lied. That's right, they were after Bill Clinton but he manipulated the truth and I don't want to make this about left and right but when you see the upper class lying, why should you tell the truth?
And who raised these guys? Maybe I'm just an outsider. Maybe I learned from my father, who was also an outsider. Maybe it's the fact that I grew up in a female-dominated household. I never ran with the pack and was egged on by my compatriots. Oh, we've all been exposed to this behavior, at the frat, the trash-talking bullies, but it always made me feel uncomfortable, I wanted to extricate myself from the scene, where you want to act like a bro to be part of the group. And groupthink takes over and you do heretofore unthinkable things. Believing you're invulnerable and the group has your back.
But if you're rich, that too is a club, with its own markers. Do you fly first class, NetJet or have your own plane? Can you snap your fingers and get what you want? Let's be clear, we no longer live in the sixties and seventies. Reagan legitimized greed and now there are tons of rich dudes who emulate rock stars without the portfolio other than the cash. And let's be clear, women are attracted to money, not all, but a certain number. And when women come in contact with this cash and power oftentimes bad things happen. Not always, but in the case of Ratner and Simmons, they do.
And now I can't say any more. This is kind of like Rodney King, we heard about police oppression for years and didn't believe it. We've been hearing about rape culture for years, and here it is, the evidence. And now most men are afraid to weigh in on the topic, they don't want to get caught in the maelstrom, and I don't want to either. But I'm wondering where this all ends up.
We've got to stop venerating the rich. We've got to stop saying they're the job-creators and so much better than the rest of us. That's just patently untrue. Too many are complicit in this myth.
We've got to eradicate bro behavior. This is a tough one, since it goes back millennia. But men are no longer hunter-gatherers, they're no longer killing dinner every day.
And we've got to hold people accountable. Wall Street blows up the country and gets off scot-free. So you're supposed to play by the rules? Once again, culpability is turned upon the opposite party. You took the mortgage, you were in the house, you're responsible, not them. But Wall Street skated because one of their own was in charge, Timothy Geithner not only resisted calls for criminal culpability, he paid the perps, gave their outfits money to stay in business. It's like the deal with Meek Mill. Jay Z was right. Meek Mill might have been a bad actor, but he was in perpetual probation, in a way white people are not. You see a black rapper and believe he's guilty. You see a rich white guy and believe he's not.
So what happens now?
The ball is being moved downfield. Thinking men will alter their behavior. But they will still want to be rich and successful for the perks. And the number one perk is sex. It even trumps money. That's what men want. I hate to admit it, but guys judge you based on who's on your arm.
Do the accused ever work again? Does the punishment fit the crime?
It's like the rest of life. Their timing was bad. You could get away with it then, but not now. Mel Gibson came back, maybe they can too. But I'm not going out of my way to see Mel's movies, Hollywood may have forgotten, but I have not. But that's just evidence of the cracks in the system. The rich and powerful believe they're in control, but in many ways they are not. We are, and new communication tools have delivered this to us. Then again, the internet has allowed untruths to prosper.
But this story has been broken by the press. The supposed dying outlet of fake news. But in an era of duplicity, where no reporter can make the cash of a techie, it's important to stick to your guns, do what you do. That's what's wrong with music today, it used to be an exponent of truth, now it's just a vehicle for wealth, with the makers complicit in the system. We want to hear from people outside the system, not those inured to it.
As for Trump, he was elected because too many felt abused by the system we've got. Which is why Bernie got traction. They were both appealing to the disaffected. But Bernie got shafted by the DNC and Trump employed the old playbook, deny, deny, deny, to escape culpability.
But homey don't play that game anymore.
Sex is not the only thing they were entitled to.
Rock stars created the paradigm. Nobodies who became somebodies who could act with impunity. Prior to this, you had to be rich to get away with it. Fame helped too, but the rock stars were both. Which is why everybody wants to be a "rock star" today. There's the rock stars of tech, the rock stars of finance, only they're not, rock stars that is. Rock stars drew women to them based on their art, their songs, without them they were oftentimes dullards unable to speak to the opposite sex. Check history, seemingly every legend says he got into it so he could meet girls. That's the power of song, when done right, rock music is life itself.
But most people cannot become rock stars.
You also have to realize men are in competition. There is not the community of women, happy just to be a member of the group. No, men are constantly climbing the ladder, pushing others down, showing off, and when they get to the top, they think they're invulnerable. Like Harvey Weinstein. Forget that he did it, the fact that David Boies kept it out of the press undercuts our entire notion of society. We thought you paid for your sins. But you don't. If you're rich and famous you hire the best attorneys, who are thrilled to get paid and be members of the club, and you skate. Kinda like Brett Ratner. Everybody's entitled to a defense, but Ratner's attorney Martin Singer keeps bloviating that the accusations are false and is on a path to put questions in the public's brain to allow Mr. Ratner to go free. Do you think you could afford the services of Mr. Singer? Would he even want to represent you if you're a nobody? Give Louis C.K. credit, at least he admitted it. That's what people with good upbringings used to do, until the President himself lied. That's right, they were after Bill Clinton but he manipulated the truth and I don't want to make this about left and right but when you see the upper class lying, why should you tell the truth?
And who raised these guys? Maybe I'm just an outsider. Maybe I learned from my father, who was also an outsider. Maybe it's the fact that I grew up in a female-dominated household. I never ran with the pack and was egged on by my compatriots. Oh, we've all been exposed to this behavior, at the frat, the trash-talking bullies, but it always made me feel uncomfortable, I wanted to extricate myself from the scene, where you want to act like a bro to be part of the group. And groupthink takes over and you do heretofore unthinkable things. Believing you're invulnerable and the group has your back.
But if you're rich, that too is a club, with its own markers. Do you fly first class, NetJet or have your own plane? Can you snap your fingers and get what you want? Let's be clear, we no longer live in the sixties and seventies. Reagan legitimized greed and now there are tons of rich dudes who emulate rock stars without the portfolio other than the cash. And let's be clear, women are attracted to money, not all, but a certain number. And when women come in contact with this cash and power oftentimes bad things happen. Not always, but in the case of Ratner and Simmons, they do.
And now I can't say any more. This is kind of like Rodney King, we heard about police oppression for years and didn't believe it. We've been hearing about rape culture for years, and here it is, the evidence. And now most men are afraid to weigh in on the topic, they don't want to get caught in the maelstrom, and I don't want to either. But I'm wondering where this all ends up.
We've got to stop venerating the rich. We've got to stop saying they're the job-creators and so much better than the rest of us. That's just patently untrue. Too many are complicit in this myth.
We've got to eradicate bro behavior. This is a tough one, since it goes back millennia. But men are no longer hunter-gatherers, they're no longer killing dinner every day.
And we've got to hold people accountable. Wall Street blows up the country and gets off scot-free. So you're supposed to play by the rules? Once again, culpability is turned upon the opposite party. You took the mortgage, you were in the house, you're responsible, not them. But Wall Street skated because one of their own was in charge, Timothy Geithner not only resisted calls for criminal culpability, he paid the perps, gave their outfits money to stay in business. It's like the deal with Meek Mill. Jay Z was right. Meek Mill might have been a bad actor, but he was in perpetual probation, in a way white people are not. You see a black rapper and believe he's guilty. You see a rich white guy and believe he's not.
So what happens now?
The ball is being moved downfield. Thinking men will alter their behavior. But they will still want to be rich and successful for the perks. And the number one perk is sex. It even trumps money. That's what men want. I hate to admit it, but guys judge you based on who's on your arm.
Do the accused ever work again? Does the punishment fit the crime?
It's like the rest of life. Their timing was bad. You could get away with it then, but not now. Mel Gibson came back, maybe they can too. But I'm not going out of my way to see Mel's movies, Hollywood may have forgotten, but I have not. But that's just evidence of the cracks in the system. The rich and powerful believe they're in control, but in many ways they are not. We are, and new communication tools have delivered this to us. Then again, the internet has allowed untruths to prosper.
But this story has been broken by the press. The supposed dying outlet of fake news. But in an era of duplicity, where no reporter can make the cash of a techie, it's important to stick to your guns, do what you do. That's what's wrong with music today, it used to be an exponent of truth, now it's just a vehicle for wealth, with the makers complicit in the system. We want to hear from people outside the system, not those inured to it.
As for Trump, he was elected because too many felt abused by the system we've got. Which is why Bernie got traction. They were both appealing to the disaffected. But Bernie got shafted by the DNC and Trump employed the old playbook, deny, deny, deny, to escape culpability.
But homey don't play that game anymore.
--
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--
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