Hi! Let's hug.
<i>Where are my LPs? I need a hug.</i><br>
<b>—George Reisch, <i>Stereophile</i>, September 1997</b>
<i>Where are my LPs? I need a hug.</i><br>
<b>—George Reisch, <i>Stereophile</i>, September 1997</b>
Sasha Frere-Jones has a fascinating <A HREF="http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/musical/2008/06/09/080609crmu_mus…; in the June 9 <I>The New Yorker</I> about Antares's Auto-Tune software. In case you aren't familiar with it, Auto-Tune is pitch correction software that is used almost universally in contemporary pop recordings—sometimes just to "fix" an off note, increasingly frequently as an effect in its own right.
My copy of Peter, Paul, & Mary's <i>Album 1700</i>, which I had bought many years ago for its Bonnie and Clyde album art, wasn't nearly as dusty as <i>Santana</i>. When I inspected it beneath a lamp, however, I noticed that it was covered by a sort of dull, gray film. The vinyl wasn't black. It was sickly. Indeed, this was one of my many albums that had suffered through the dark, dirty waters of a basement flood. Maybe two or three floods. Maybe four.
Some musicians are remembered for a single remarkable album; some are remembered for a hit song—Bo Diddley will always be remembered for a beat. That eponymous beat—a rhumba-inflected <I>Bomp a-bomp-a-bomp, bomp, bomp</I>—may well have been "the most plagiarized rhythm in rock," as <I>Rolling Stone</I> claimed in 2005.
<B>THE COMMITMENTS: <I>Original Soundtrack</I></B><BR>
MCA MCAD-10286 (CD only). Paul Bushnell, Kevin Killen, Alan Parker, prods.; Kevin Killen, eng. AAD. TT: 46:54.
Reader dBruce wants to know where do you sit, lie, or hang when listening? What chair/couch (make & model) is great for listening?
Having visited China and witnessed the building boom firsthand, I must admit that I suspected corners were being cut in construction—so I wasn't surprised by how many buildings came down. Considering all the construction accidents happening in NYC this year, who am I to look askance at China?
Stephen Mejias, our excellent assistant editor, is fully in the grip of vinyl fever. He and I are now having daily conversations about the once and future allure of the long player.
I never cared much for Santana. (The band, not Johan. Johan, I love.) You know, there was always "Evil Ways" and "Oye Como Va"—fine songs for a stretch of highway when there's nothing else on the radio, but, eh: So what? I shrug my shoulders.