I sat in my driveway in awe after arriving home as the album played the rest of the way through. What I was hearing was a revelation; I had no choice but to defer everything else and keep listening. I’d known the band Curved Air for a few years and, in the right mood, considered myself a fan of their early 70s output of folk-tinged progressive rock. But what was coming out of the speakers was something different. The songs were familiar, but were altogether sharper, more alive, and seemed to just plain rock harder. They were filled with zeal, anger, and raw energy, words that I would never have used to describe the Curved Air I had previously known. I was experiencing 1975’s Curved Air Live for the first time and the experience was good.
Recorded during a late 1974 tour that the original band members had been compelled to undertake following two years of separation in order to pay off a tax bill, Curved Air Live was not the sound of a joyful group reunion but rather of five supremely talented artists working out their 
individual issues together on stage. The reunion would last only for the tour and album release, but what a statement they would leave behind in this record.
That this is not your hippy uncle’s Curved Air of old is made clear from first track “It Happened Today” as it opens with tight, amplified keyboards replacing the piano flourish of the studio version and biting electric guitar and grooving bass brought far forward in the mix. When Sonja Kristina’s vocal kicks in at the half-minute mark, it carries none of the twee quaintness of the original. Instead we hear the slightly-gargled rasp of a woman on the verge, all antagonism and fury, and wonderfully so. Wikipedia cites Kristina as explaining that, at the time of this recording, she was in a distraught emotional state following the breakup of her first marriage, and this had provoked wild, raw singing. While sorry at the cause, I enthusiastically celebrate the result.
Second track “Marie Antoinette” probably represents the greatest, and most stirring, change in tone and feel from its studio version. The original is a fantastic progressive folk rock song that tells the tale of the French revolution over the
top of some excellent bluesy electric guitar wailing by Francis Monkman. It looks back on a momentous historical event and imagines it from afar. The live take here casts off the sense of the past and instead transports the listener directly into the scene. The words are the same, but rawness and wrath now replace stoic storytelling. One feels the “anger, born of hunger” viscerally, no longer just listening in but shouting along:
“We are the people of France, we demand that the
Elegant blue-blooded leeches that bleed us
Are taught what it means to grow fat and not feed us
We are the people of France, you must heed us!”
The mainly instrumental “Propositions” is another one that becomes something new here. From Kristina’s gravel-voiced introductory shriek to the extended, echo-laden guitar and synth solos that double its run-time as compared to the original, this version leaves its earthbound, rollercoaster feel behind to launch itself into orbit on a Hawkwind-like rocket ride.
Curved Air’s best-known song, “Vivaldi,” is likewise transformed. The opening bombast is turned up tenfold, and leads into a hootenanny-worthy fiddle workout by Darryl Way in lieu of the classical violin of the studio version. This is followed by an extended, spacey electronic excursion in multiple parts, occasionally punctuated by hoarse yelping from Kristina and Way’s staccato violin bursts. Awesome!
The overall musicianship demonstrated on Curved Air Live is exceptional. In setting aside the focus on harmony and gloriously pompous crescendos, diminuendos and other prog/folk affectations that characterize their early studio albums, the band members are free to truly fly as instrumentalists here. Monkman lets escape the inner guitar hero that we always knew was lurking in the wings, with violinist/keyboardist Way and drummer/percussionist Florian Pilkington-Miksa also allowed ample space to shine. It is vocalist Sonja Kristina however who best takes advantage of the on-stage freedom to demonstrate her range, the precious chanteuse of the studio replaced by a take-no-prisoners woman with attitude.
The “folk” side of Curved Air is not to be found in this outlier offering. This is progressive hard rock. I’d recommend this even as a one-off exploration for rockers put off by the artifice and pretense of early 70s “art rock.” As for those who only know Curved Air from their studio output, prepare to spend some time dumbstruck in your driveway.
Marie Antoinette (live):
When I realized I was going to miss my opportunity to see the reunited original line-up of Black Sabbath live by only the slightest of 
margins, I was bummed. Their tour on the back of the 13 album, a record I liked unreservedly, was to pass through the Washington D.C. area only a few days before I would finish my three-year assignment in Bolivia. Callous fate had already conspired to rob me of the chance to see the Dio-led version of Sabbath back in 1980 (as described here), and now yet again an indifferent universe casually overlooked me.
Among the many important changes in the 33 years since the earlier Sabbath letdown was one in particular that would greatly ease the pain of this repeat disappointment. I was now a father and therefore endowed by natural law with the dual blessing/curse of experiencing life not solely individually but also vicariously through my offspring. My son and daughter would both return to the D.C. area weeks before me in order to prepare for their respective entries into graduate school and university and could therefore make the pilgrimage to the Jiffy Lube Live amphitheater in Bristow, Virginia, to see the
show. I purchased two tickets for the 2 August 2013 concert and presented them to the kids as well-received high school and university graduation gifts.
In the days leading up to the concert, I relentlessly bothered the kids by phone from my lair in La Paz. I demanded details of the vehicle and route they would take to the venue, suggested pre-concert playlists, and double-checked for sufficient funds to buy souvenir T-shirts to memorialize the event. I made one final call during the Andrew W.K. opening slot to confirm they were in their seats and of correct mind, and then settled down with headphones to listen to 13 while imagining myself alongside them.
The morning after, I was thrilled to receive separate rave reviews and detailed descriptions of the “amazing” show from both daughter and son. It was clear that they had not only enjoyed the concert itself but also experiencing it together just the two of them, something that had become naturally less routine as they grew toward adulthood and began to forge their own paths. I was a tad sad at having personally missed the show, but the disappointment was significantly lightened by the knowledge that I had successfully bequeathed the elusive riches to my children rather than having lost them outright.
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Fast forward two and a half years and the previously uncaring cosmos seemed to have actively arrayed themselves for the sole purpose of bringing me joy. Call it karma or coincidence at your whim, but I fantasize a supernatural hand in the mundane turn of events that fortuitously conveyed me from Egypt to New York City just in time to witness Black Sabbath’s 27 February 2016 show at Madison Square Garden in the first days of their announced final tour, denominated “The End.” I had all but given up on the idea that I would ever partake in the live Sabbath sacrament, but some unseen master of reality appeared to have lorded over this world in my favor.
My first Sabbath concert and my first visit to the renowned Garden, how much better could it get? From my pie-eyed perspective, everything was perfect. Following a good opening set by Rival Sons – an energetic, young band I had previously enjoyed in a small Baltimore club less than a year before – the legendary patriarchs of a gazillion metal genres strode onstage to massive cheers before assaulting us with the relentless barrage of doom that is “Black Sabbath,” the first song from their first album. Any concerns about their playing ability in the wake of Tony Iommi’s cancer scare, the status of Ozzy’s voice, or the impact of the absence of original drummer Bill Ward were forgotten immediately. This was truly the mighty Black Sabbath, with full power and glory intact.
The set list was never going to fully satisfy; there is simply too much greatness in the catalog. I was pleased however at the inclusion of personal favorites “Fairies Wear Boots” and “Hand of Doom” alongside stalwarts “Paranoid” and “Children of the Grave.” Geezer Butler’s bass awed throughout, with the “Bassically” intro to “N.I.B.” an obvious standout moment. Why “Dirty Women” from the Technical Ecstasy album and nothing at all from Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, Sabotage, or 13? It mattered only in hindsight for it all made perfect sense in the moment. I felt in no way cheated when the show ended; one of my loftiest musical bucket list entries had been checked off and I was ecstatic.
A word about touring drummer Tommy Clufetos and behind-the-scenes player Adam Wakeman: As anyone knows who has read my previous Sabbath-related post (linked in the first paragraph above), I have my own petulant, but honestly-held personal reasons for caring less about the absence of Bill Ward from the latter-day, reborn Sabbath than many of my fellow fans. Even so, it seemed objectively true, at least to me, that Clufetos is a formidable and worthy replacement skins-man. I felt both the power and the jazz-inflected swing that Ward was famous for in Clufetos’ drumming. Moreover, his lengthy solo during “Rat Salad,” while the elder Sabs likely took a restroom break, was naught less than amazing. As for Rick’s son, Adam, his offstage keyboards and second guitar seemed in no way meant to simply fill holes, but rather to provide a firm backing for the canvas on which Mr. Iommi painted his doom-laden art. A quick acknowledgement by the band and a wave from behind the curtain reinforced Wakeman’s unseen but vital role.
I dropped nearly US$100 on the limited edition The End CD and two MSG-exclusive concert T-shirts. I give the CD a fervent thumbs-up, finding it pleasingly similar and a worthy companion to the 13 album. As for the shirts, I look forward to a future opportunity, probably involving a long drive, to compel my kids to pull on their own souvenir tees and join me in listening to a dad-crafted playlist in celebration of our “shared” Sabbath experience. (I happily note that the male heir has already purchased his own ticket to see “The End” when it passes back through Virginia this fall.)
Goin’ home, late last night
Suddenly I got a fright
Yeah I looked through the window and surprised what I saw
Fairies with boots dancing with a dwarf, all right now!
Kevin Mazur – Getty Images
LONG LIVE SABBATH!!!
As I thumbed through an old missionary journal from my late teens while posting here yesterday, I came across a brief entry that I found quite comforting. It seemed to cast a line across time to reassure me that, even after a journey of more than 30 years filled with seemingly endless, often wonderful, but also sometimes daunting change, I’m still me. And more importantly, I still rock!
Thursday, September 6, 1984: As of right now we are teaching 11 families and most of them are progressing… Also, on a different line, I heard some awesome heavy metal on 99 FM today!! Examples: Thin Lizzy, Ozzy Osbourne, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Ronnie James Dio, Foreigner, Ratt, Scorpions, Black Sabbath, Saxon, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Led Zeppelin, Def Leppard, Billy Idol. I wrote all those so that when I am old and withered I can read this and find my way back to the fountain of life and youth: HEAVY METAL!! “The Source”
And just for shits and giggles, here’s a note from 15-year-old me to my mom and stepdad that Mom kept. I guess seeking to foist share my music has been a long-running proclivity. (Note: “D.I.” stands for Deseret Industries, a Mormon Church-run thrift store. Sadly, I have no memory of what treasures I had found.)
A few weeks back, a piece by a music blogger I follow about the album Synchronicity by The Police started me down an unexpected path of nostalgia, sadness, and finally, hope. I haven’t owned the album since the late 1990s when I foolishly gave away all my cassettes in a crazed fit of downsizing, but its unique, fleeting place in a wonderfully clumsy moment of my life came crashing back in waves as I read the post.
When Synchronicity came out in the summer of 1983, I was in the final months of apprehensive preparation to leave everything I knew behind to journey to a foreign land and save souls as a full-time Mormon missionary. At the same time, I was enjoying a new and exciting teen romance with Kris, a non-Mormon girl I had met while “dragging the boulevard” that hot Utah summer. Kris had actually first dated my best friend Scott and only traded down to me when that relationship failed to launch; all was good however given that I likewise had been dating her friend Lisa while she was with Scott. Time spent with Kris was glorious. For reasons lost to time, we declared Synchronicity “ours” and listened to it constantly when we were together.
Then came September and my withdrawal into God’s work. Kris sent me off with a beautifully hand-written card with the words from “Every Breath You Take.” In contradiction to that song’s lyric however, distance and absence subsequently asserted themselves to prove it was us we could replace after all; every bond you break, every smile you fake. I only ever saw Kris once after my return from missionary service in 1985 and knew little of her later life.
So, after reading the mentioned blog post on Synchronicity, I decided to, you know, what the hell, google Kris. The very first hit was, sadly, an obituary: Kris passed away “unexpectedly” in early 2015 at age 49. Damn…
I wrote to my friend Scott, with whom I’d allowed communication to lag over recent years, to share the sad news. It turned out that he had already known. Moreover, unlike Facebook-disabled me, he actually knew something of her life in the post-Synchronicity decades. Scott told me:
…she posted a lot and then nothing for long time. I looked up her account wondering if she dropped me because of my right wing posts (she was a huge lib, you would have gotten along well….smile) and read all the postings and was shocked. Nobody mentioned what happened, I have no idea, she was so happy and doing things with her friends and positive and going on lots of trips.
A happy “huge lib” doing things with her friends, positive and going on lots of trips – Good for you, Kris! I sincerely hope it’s even more of the same for you now, wherever your journey has taken you.
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What follows is the story of the brief intersection of Kris’s and my own paths as told in excerpts from the journal I kept as a missionary way back then. As a set of discrete, one-sided snapshots, it is fair to neither of us, being inevitably weighed down by the over-wrought drama of teenage insecurity. It is real though, and I offer it as a meager eulogy to someone who played a beautiful, if brief, part in my life:
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14 Sep 1983: I got a letter from Kris today. It was really neat. She is a neat girl and I miss seeing her … I got a little homesick when I read her letter but I got over it — or I will get over it, hopefully. I can’t wait to write her back.
25 Sep 1983: I have decided to give Kris a Book of Mormon when I see (her) at the airport…I have really grown to love her and I just want to help her find some of the happiness that I have found.
5 Oct 1983: I got a letter from Kris today. In it she said that she might love me but she really isn’t sure yet. That made me feel pretty good. I don’t think of her for very long periods of time because that would only make me homesick, but when I do think of her I realize that I am pretty lucky to know her. She is an awesome “chica.”
13 Oct 1983: (Kris wrote) that she had found this old poem… and it reminded her of me. She said that next time I was worrying about whether or not I should do what I feel, I should read the poem… (The poem says) that if you don’t take the risk, you’ll never realize the joy.
20 Oct 1983: Yesterday I received a pretty “important” letter from Kris. She is starting to get nervous about being away from me for so long. She is afraid that I could become “holier-than-thou.” I wrote her a letter and tried to explain the change that I am going through… I really love her and would hate to lose her but I will roll with the punches.
21 Oct 1983: I received the best letter I have ever received from Kris today. She said that she read (an article about Mormon missionaries) … and that it had really helped her to understand why I felt I needed to go on a mission and that she was happy for the changes I have been going through… Later today, we went to a pizzeria over by BYU. They had tunes playing there and of course one of the songs they played was “King of Pain” — Kris and me’s song — by The Police. It was tough but I came through ok.
26 Oct 1983: After scripture study I booked over to another building and called Kris. It was great to talk to her! We really didn’t talk about much but just to hear her voice made me feel great. She was excited to hear from me too. We talked about the fact that we are both kind of nervous about the airport but both of us are excited about it! I told her that there would be a lot of my relatives there and that I just wanted her to be right next to me all the time. She said she would. After we were done talking we both told each other for the first time out loud that we loved each other!!
8 Nov 1983: I am on a plane somewhere between Miami and Lima, Peru. At the airport (in Utah), my family and Kris met me… I gave Kris the Book of Mormon; I don’t know what I have been worried about. It went great… I love her more than I can believe. She wrote me a long letter and gave me a present but … I haven’t been able to read (it) yet.
A sadly out of focus photo of Kris and my Grandpa seeing me off at the airport in November 1983; my only photo of Kris.
19 Nov 1983: The girls here in Peru are really friendly… While we were (downtown) we stopped in a record store. I bought a “Police” tape because it was only like $3.00. Neither (my missionary companion) nor I have a tape recorder so there is no listening to it.
24 Nov 1983: Today was Thanksgiving… after (turkey dinner) we went shopping. I bought two tapes: The Police: Synchronicity and The B-52s: Whammy. We haven’t got any way to listen to them though.
26 Nov 1983: I still haven’t heard anything from Kris. Oh well, I’m tough. I can handle it.
12 Dec 1983: Well, I bought myself a tape player today.
18 Dec 1983: I received some pretty good letters… finally got one from Kris. It was a neat letter. I am so flippin’ confused about her that I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know how I feel anymore. How can feelings change so fast?
7 Jan 1984: Today was a pretty good day… The only problem is that I’ve got to stop flirting with the girls. I am just torturing myself! I got a letter from Kris today. It was a good letter… I am beyond confused about Kris and my feelings towards her… I kind of feel guilty because my feelings have changed so quickly. From letters it sounds like Kris and my family are getting to be quite the good buds. What am I going to do?!
2 Apr 1984: Spent the morning writing letters. I also made a cassette for Kris, remember her?
7-8 Apr 1984: I only got four letters… one from Dad and one from Kris…
20 Jun 1984: …By the way, last Saturday I got a cassette from Kris but it was so boring that I forgot to write about it.
22 Jul 1984: I’m gonna “Dear Jane” Kris tonight.
17 Sep 1984: I got a letter from Kris today after two months without anything and man, is she pissed! When I wrote Kris off I felt good because I thought she had really handed me a lot of crap, now somehow she has made me feel like a complete jerk. I have already written an apologetic letter. I should just leave it, but no!! I have to make sure everyone is happy…
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A sleep trance, a dream dance,
A shared romance,
Synchronicity
(from the song “Synchronicity I” by The Police)
As much as I’d like to be able to claim that I was at the forefront of cultural change and rode the burgeoning underground wave of punk rock in the late 70s, the plain truth is that I did not. In fact, not only was I not an early adopter, I actively and vociferously denounced the movement at the time as the crude effluence of petulant morons. Those filthy, carping “punks” – in all the slurring, pejorative sense of the term – couldn’t hold a candle to my illustrious hard rock heroes. Sure, I had been floored by the cantankerous performance by Elvis Costello on Saturday Night Live in late ’77, but c’mon, he looked like Buddy Holly and besides, it was a one-off moment for me that failed to spur further exploration.
The closest I came at the time to opening my mind to the safety-pin-bedecked gobbers was via an embrace of Blondie circa ‘Parallel Lines’ and the first B-52’s album, both of which groups were then lumped in as part of the punk movement by mainstream media in my neck of the woods. I however clearly knew the difference between these idiosyncratic but non-threatening bands and the system-hating, ne’er-do-well razor-blade fetishists in the Sex Pistols and the Dead Boys.
It was 1981 before the internal prejudices began to weaken and I allowed myself to openly experiment with music that I understood to be categorically “punk rock” without any softening edges. The band that finally opened my eyes and ears was X via their second LP ‘Wild Gift.’ Unfortunately and much to my dismay, I am unable to recall what led to my acquisition of the album. I have vague impressions of either seeing X on the TV and being moved to make the purchase, or simply having received it unordered as an LP of the month through a record club membership, but neither notion successfully coalesces into an actual memory. However I came into possession of ‘Wild Gift,’ I found it exhilarating from the first listen… and I still do!
‘Wild Gift’ is a relentless blast of short, fast songs featuring slam-poetry lyrics riding over the top of manic rockabilly guitar and nervous, jittery drumming, provided by Billy Zoom and DJ Bonebrake respectively. The skittish energy of the music is both reinforced and weirdly mellowed by the shouty, discordant-but-still-somehow-harmonized vocals of Exene Cervenka and John Doe. Their shared whiny, perpetually-complaining singing styles mesh to create a melodiousness that is unique to X. Imagine if it were possible to concurrently pogo and gracefully sway all in one fluid motion; that’s the ‘Wild Gift’ experience.
Every song on the album causes a physical reaction, whether it be an enthusiastic head bob along to the bopping “The Once Over Twice” or involuntary toe-tapping to the off-kilter “Adult Books,” which sounds like what must happen when one mixes speed and quaaludes. (Disclaimer: VotF does not endorse illicit drug taking.) While it is the vocals that generally wear the engineer’s hat here, the hopped-up, almost surf rock guitar playing and snares-and-cymbals drumming are what propel the train down the tracks throughout, relentlessly chugging even in the (relatively) moodier songs like “White Girl” and “Universal Corner.”
Anyone who’s spent any time at all on this site knows that, for me, “guitar-driven” isn’t so much a description as it
is a personal theology. So I’ll end by noting that Billy Zoom proves himself one hell of a guitar player on ‘Wild Gift,’ equally impressive providing unrelenting rhythms or blasting out rockabilly-tinged solos. As an added bonus, his riffing and short breaks in “It’s Who You Know” are nearly Motörhead-esque in their old school rock and roll glory.
X: It’s Who You Know
Victim of the Fury 