Everybody Loves a Ballad

Ok. Hands up, I admit it – I’m a sucker for a big rock ballad. You can’t beat a bluesy riff, some heart-break lyrics, a soaring solo and a massive chorus. Ever since I was a kid I’ve loved a tragic melancholy slice of the break-up blues; my favourite Elvis track growing up was ‘I Just Can’t Help Believing’ and I loved ELO‘s ‘I Can’t Get It Out of My Head’; Doctor Hook‘s ‘Sylvia’s Mother’ was another that drifted up through the floor late at night that I couldn’t resist. Call me a sentimental old fool if you will, but come on, we all love a good ballad really and this updated version of an old listicle brings a few that have stood by me.

Ah yes, I remember it well, one of my first musical epiphanies. Back in the days before the internet, before satellite TV and even before channel 5, entertainment back home in England fell way short of today’s multiplicity – we had four TV channels and a handful of radio stations, yet access to non-pop programming was available for a few precious hours here and there. Besides The Tube (Channel 4), The Old Grey Whistle Test (BBC 2) and of course the legendary John Peel on Radio One, we also had the Friday Rock Show with the gravel voiced Tommy Vance for the rock/metal crowd, of which I was an enthusiastic member. Anyway, there I was one Friday night, in the middle of winter, must’ve been January ’89, headphones plugged into my midi system, when Tommy announced the next song – “Top 40 record? Hmmmm” – followed by the heartbreak riff of ‘How Come It Never Rains’ pulling on the heartstrings of my lovelorn 15 year old self. Damn it, I almost cried! I fucking loved that song, still do, Tyla‘s raspy cracked voice, the hook laden chorus and all those bluesy notes bending out of shape – unbeatable.

How do you end an album almost totally dedicated to shagging? Getting dumped that’s how. ‘What It Takes’ has to be one of the ultimate power ballads – it is Aerosmith at their heart aching best. Lyrically it is nothing short of superb, even with its cheeky references to other tracks*, and musically it’s sublime, the subtle time shifts are pure genius. Throw in an astonishing vocal from Steven Tyler and you have one of their finest crying in your beer tunes ever, something they’ve tried hard to match multiple times since, failing repeatedly every damn time. Yes, even on ‘I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing’ – it was good, but pales in comparison. Pass the tissues.

Although ‘Don’t Know What You Got (til it’s gone)’ is without doubt one of the cheesiest, most cliché glam rock power ballads in the history of hair spray, Cinderella were somewhat unfairly lumped in with the glam bands from LA as they prove on the title track of the very same album. Tom Keifer and co absolutely slay on the superb Zeppelinesque blues lament that is ‘Long Cold Winter‘, with its badass bluesy vocals accompanied by a mean lick of guitar; man, the sky is crying, the guitars are crying, even Tom sounds like he’s crying and it’s gonna be a long cold winter without your love baby.

Jeff Buckley‘s ‘Grace’ is one of the finest albums ever committed to vinyl, bearing not even the vaguest hint of filler. Although ‘Last Goodbye is an absolutely incredible break up song, there is way too much groove to the bass line to call it a ballad; ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ on the other hand….slow acoustic strum, rainy funeral imagery and tonight you’re on my mind… we get soaring vocals in the hook, brooding Hammond underpinning the melody as the emotions stack up in the lyrical climax:
“It’s never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It’s never over, all my riches for her smiles when i slept so soft against her
It’s never over, all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It’s never over, she’s the tear that hangs inside my soul forever”


Then there’s ‘Forget Her’ which features Jeff at his best, fuck it just listen to it – it’s awesome.

Tesla were so sure they’d written the ultimate love song that they called it ‘Love Song’. Ok, so it’s like mega cheesy but hey, it works. Medieval intro and classic break up lyric to kick off, but the twist here is that this song offers hope that we can all find love again. It’s corny, it’s lighters in the air time and on one level it totally sucks, but on another you can’t argue with it’s delivery, from every soaring guitar lick to the arm waving sing along parts – the extended five man acoustical jam version is unbeatable – it out clichés every glam rock cliché ballad ever – even ‘Every Rose..’.

You don’t get much more heart breaking than the warm bath, open vein agony of ‘Black’ by Pearl Jam. Man, Eddie Vedder was really upset when he wrote those words and if you can’t identify with how the poor fella feels then you are either a cold unfeeling shell or you’ve never been dumped. For me, the definitive version has to be the one from MTV Unplugged where Eddie really belts out that killer final slice of desperate heartache.

One of my all time favourite songs is so obscure you’ll be hard pushed to find it anywhere. On the UK version of Tones of Home by Blind Melon, ‘Wooh G.O.D.’, also known as ‘Whoa Dog’, is either a mispress on the vinyl 12″ or wrongly credited as ‘Soak The Sin’. Whatever the case may be, this melancholy lament by tragic vocalist Shannon Hoon to his dead dog** is just so damn raw…

Notes:
*) “Girl before I met you; I was F.I.N.E fine; but your love made me a prisoner; yeah my heart’s been doing time”
**) “Wooh” was the name of Shannon’s dog. It is spelled Wooh, but pronounced “whoa.” Shannon would always catch it tearing something up or raising hell and he always yelled “whoa!” to try to get him to stop so he named him that. Shannon got him in a pet store and really connected with the dog and felt bad that he was cooped up in a cage. The dog was expensive so Shannon went back to the pet store, slid the glass up on the cage and snuck Wooh out of the store under his coat. He died when he swallowed a pin cushion. He was undergoing surgery and was over-anethstized by the vet. Shannon and Rogers buried Wooh near the big “HOLLYWOOD” sign in California. From http://www.blindmelon.org

Terry, Kurt and the Power of Art

I wrote this piece back in 2015 when one of my favourite writers passed away. It was originally on an obscure, now defunct, Tumblr blog that I had. However, although the people are less current than they were and the movie has long passed into memory, something about this article still seemed relevant, hence the share.

One of my oldest friends has died and, although we never actually met or spoke, I can’t help but feel wistfully sad at his passing.

It brings home to me how powerful art can be; we form a relationship with the purveyor, and I don’t mean the stalky type of relationship where we delude ourselves of reciprocity, he or she is with us during so many moments of our lives that we come to develop that easy familiarity that we have with our very best friends.

Terry Pratchett accompanied me through a large section of my life, over twenty years I guess. He was a constant companion during the rollercoaster of University as I found my way in the real Ankh Morpork (Terry’s capital city in the Discworld books) and whenever we hadn’t been in touch for a while he was always there when I needed him.

In his books Terry created a parallel universe we could all feel at home in, despite its apparent unreality, Comic Fantasy not being the most obvious choice of genre for most readers. Terry managed to captivate, enchant and most importantly include us all in his clever brand of observational humour, providing the kind of insight into human nature we could all relate to. The phrase “complex simplicity” springs to mind as the most appropriate way to describe the genius with which Terry wielded his pen, and probably sword; the use of capital letters to indicate that Death was talking being the most obvious example – kinda simple way to mark the character but genius in the fact that it gave Terry’s Grim Reaper an identity and voice off the pages.

This kind of humour united fans of the books, we were all in on the jokes even if we were at times on the receiving end of some gentle mockery; so far removed from the self righteous nastiness often present in satirical humour. Terry was all about self deprecation. I will miss him. But then again I still have about 25 of the 70 books he wrote, I can revisit them like I might an old friend and there are a whole host of characters and stories that I still don’t know. I loved Terry’s art, I don’t confuse it with the person, but I appreciate the impact this man had on my life and how he had been a friend to me for so long.

It was somewhat coincidental then, that another renowned artist was brought to my conscience on the day of Terry’s death. I happened to see the trailer for Montage of Heck, the upcoming documentary into the life of Kurt Cobain. The trailer features a number of home video scenes of Kurt and his daughter Frances Bean, as well as the much maligned Courtney Love, and is stark contrast to the exposé that is Soaked in Bleach.

I liked Nirvana, I saw them live, I rode the grunge train for a while during my aforementioned University years, but was never sucked into the idolatry of Cobain that the t-shirt tribes still hold on to. Nevertheless, I recognize Kurt’s talent and impact on the music industry; his songs stand up, the formulaic meanderings of In Utero notwithstanding, and I believe that on Unplugged in NYC we can get a sense of whatever it was that set him apart. My “problem” with Kurt was more personal I suppose, in that I have never been sure how I feel about the man behind the art, like, was he that good? Was he that different? Was he really that tortured? Then I saw the trailer.

Oh my.

How human.

I’d forgotten how dehumanizing the media can be, they tend to objectify artists whilst at the same time promoting vampiric interest in their private lives, although writers like Terry tend not to be so celebritised and its their enduring humanness that is the appeal. So when a movie maker gains access to the truly intimate moments of someone so iconic, and not just the paycheck driven words and pictures of the paparazzi, it was enough to stop me in my tracks. I await the movie with relish, not voyeuristically, but with eager anticipation of seeing the child who would become the biggest star in the world so that I can contemplate the tragic humanity of it all.

How far reaching art can be.