Folk Music: July 2004 Archives
Seems like the world has gone fantasy crazy. Oh, you know, you got your Lords on the Rings and your good old Harold Potters with their fantastical creatures and their heros and villians and you know, like magic and stuff. I actually know very little about it. I'm not really a fan of the fantasy genre of books and movies. I've never been enchanted by wizards or scared by dragons (I did once had a great affinity for the great half real action/half animated Disney classic Pete's Dragon). Meanwhile, I have quite enjoyed the funny ha ha fantasy aesthetic of such bands like Surface of Eceyon. In the context of a band like Surface of Eceyon the fantasy element is much easier to digest because they are a mostly instrumental deep psych jam style band and it just fits in with the vibe. While listening to the music you aren't hit over the head with the fantasy vibe. Now, on the other hand, you have a band like Dragon, which is the solo project for Dick Baldwin, member of Landing and Surface of Eceyon. Dragon is a folk pop band with just a touch of psych or maybe it's better to call Dragon a song cycle and not a band. Dragon brings the fantasy full on.
You see the only release under the Dragon name to the right here. Each of the edition of 120 or so of the Dragon CD were hand stitched by Dick Baldwin and it really feels like an amazingly intimate package. Dragon is a 5 song, 9 minute CD telling the story of a Dragon and and his wrath upon a Kingdom. You hear things from the viewpoint of the villagers, the dragon, a brave warrior, and a narrator. The songs, beautiful and simple, reminds me of Daniel Johnston. Baldwin's soft voice sincerely speaking of these events is so pleasing and it feels so fresh. Dragon is done with an amazing amount of sincerity, and Baldwin is putting himself "out there" to an extent which is rare these days.
The Dragon legacy continues on with a new song cycle entitled Magicorn. Magicorn is about a failed wizard who happens upon a unicorn who is brimming with magical powers. The story, much like Dragon, ends tragically. Baldwin injects these mythical creatures with a great deal of dignity, and sadness that makes these simple songs which tell simple stories feel so important to me. I saw Dragon perform last night for the first time, and it really made my year. Dick described the stories between the songs and had an audience filled with cynical rock'n'rollers rapt in attention as he sang from a Dragon's viewpoint, "As I swoop down toward the small village, people run and houses burn. What I'd give for one fine night to dance and drink with them. A taste of love would fill my heart. But instead I must kill." I hear that Baldwin will create two more song cycles in the series based on mythical creatures. It really seems amazing to me, as I said before dragons and potions and clerics are not my cup of tea, but, "despite the crushing odds," (from "Fallen" on Dragon) Dragon (and Magicorn) are The Greatest Band of All Time.
Dragon is exclusively availale at Yarn Lazer.
There a lot of names that come to mind when I hear "Greatest Band of all Time". Many of them have extensive catalogs of impressive material: Bo Diddley, Unwound, Rolling Stones, Lesley Gore, Milkshakes, John Lee Hooker, the Fall, Webb Pierce, Holly Golightly, the Beatles, Betty Everett, the Impressions, George Jones, James Brown, Fugazi and Annette Funicello have all released album after album of music incredible, all qualify for the status of Greatest Band of all Time. But I am captivated by the work of a man who made only one album. It was all he needed to make. He is Jackson C. Frank.
I'd never heard of him before February when I was playing in Bristol, England. I walked into the house I was staying and my hosts Lisa and Tom had just put on a record. I stopped dead.
"What is this?"
"A folk singer from the '60s, Jackson C. Frank. It's produced by Paul Simon, I guess he was a big influence on Simon & Garfunkel".
What the wtf. The album they had was a bootleg reissue of the 1965 Columbia album Jackson C. Frank, his sole release, long out of print and impossible to find.
Don't know what got me so immediately about it. A man, a guitar, some songs, a legend. It was just clear and simple and spoke volumes. These songs, I can't get away from them. They really are nothing special except to me. And a bunch of people who met him, and some Brit folk types who don't mean much to me like Bert Jansch, Sandy Denny, Al Stewart. He was American, spent the mid-'60s in England, playing shows and influencing a generation of folk-rockers. Being a "major influence" doesn't mean a hill of beans; impressionable Brits come cheap. The songs though, they last forever and "Blues Run the Game", "Kimbie", "My Name Is Carnival" are immortal. He apparently recorded several sessions for the BBC. Why haven't these been released? Somebody get on that.
Digging deeper there is a tragic back story. The equivalent of one fourth of Frank's hard times has made legends of mediocrities with a tenth of Frank's magic. For instance, when he was a kid the furnace exploded at his elementary school, killing most of his classmates. He suffered burns that took over a year to heal. The insurance settlement from the accident was paid to him when he reached the age of 21, so he moved to London, where he shared an apartment with the aforementioned Simon & Garfunkel. His album was recorded in three hours and went nowhere. He married, his child died in infancy, his wife left him. He was homeless on the streets for years, lost the use of his legs and someone randomly shot him in the eye. None of this matters. He could have spent the years after recording Jackson C. Frank as a successful tax accountant, preparing to retire to his vacation home in Florida, wouldn't change the fact that the Jackson C. Frank album touches deep. He was only 22 when he made this record, but he sounds like he could have been 40. When he was 40, he looked like he was 60. He died at the age of 56.
One clue to Frank's genius: when he was 13, still recovering from severe burns, his family took him to Graceland because he loved Elvis Presley. He sat at the bottom of the driveway, and was surprised when Elvis came out, introduced himself and took Frank into the house to meet the parents. This was in 1956. Heartbreak Hotel. Jesus Christ. Could kill a man. Or make him stronger.
I'm going to do my best to rope this back in. I've been getting a little off track lately.
On one of my first trips to Portland, then acquaintance Owen Ashworth and I spent an awkward, enlightening, and eventually life-altering 24 hours together on a whim--he was coming down to play a show and wanted some company, I was honored to oblige. The ride was a little rocky at first (conversation a bit stifled, as to be expected) but eventually hit its stride upon reaching the topic of--what else--music. We spoke at length of his failed record label, which included only two releases: the first his own, and the second a band he was briefly in called the Papercuts. As is often the case with Owen, the Papercuts were instantly awarded the title of his "favorite band," with much praise for his genius friend Jason Quever--a name I recognized from Owen's own records. "I've got a bunch of them left--I'll have to get you one." And that was the last I ever really heard about it.
A while later I was commissioned to throw together a rather ill-fated show for a man named Cass McCombs (another friend of Owen's) whose recently released EP Not The Way I had recently fallen in love with. And there was that Quever name again, producing and playing all over the thing. Now, if you're familiar with McCombs (I'll do a GBoAT on that dude sooner or later), you'll know that his records are captivating sonic statements--an all or nothing enveloping wash that works as an incredibly strong contrast to the bulk of the voguish hipster folk movement currently at hand. And, as I was soon to find out, this success is due in no small to the careful hand of Jason Quever.
The Papercuts is another of those revolving door projects, historically featuring folks like Cass and Owen, but for the most part just revolving around Quever alone. His first album, 2000's Rejoicing Songs (the one Owen was talking about), is largely a clunky affair--with Modest Mouse's heavy influence a little too felt throughout (apparently Quever doesn't think so highly of the record--I think I got my copy against his wishes). Since then his sound has evolved dramatically, taking on a beautifully timeless air that is simultaneously reverential of a number of likely sources of the folk era--pulling the curtain back a little bit on the wizardry of Cass' sound.
Since meeting him about a year ago, Jason has been circulating different versions of the Papercuts' self-titled EP on CD-R, I couple of which I have received and nearly worn-out--with particular regard for the song "Pan American Blues pt. 2." Simply put, one of my very favorite songs of the last couple of years--whose chorus just levels me everytime. There was talk (and even a release date) for the record (now titled A Fairy Tale) to come out on Cass' label Monitor Records, but after some reportedly shifty circumstances, the plans were axed--with plans for release on a smaller label in the near future. Plans are also being laid for Quever to collaborate on the next Casiotone For the Painfully Alone record--a notion that, as you can imagine, excites me a great deal. Unsung and underappreciated, we here at GBoAT pray that our man Q gets his just dues, and gets them quick.
