#'70s Music

[music-is-my-life-man]

Angus Young & Bon Scott, 1979

[bayareabadboy]

The Runaways-1975

[sy666th]

Something old,

something new

something blue

something borrowed

for the new guy

[mywifeleftme]

312: Victor Jara // Manifiesto

Manifiesto Victor Jara 1975, Discos Pueblo

Manifiesto is assembled from recordings intended for an album that was to be called Tiempos que cambian (literally Times That Change, or New Times) smuggled out of Chile by Jara’s widow Joan after the folksinger’s torture and murder by the Pinochet junta in 1973. It was simultaneously released by different labels under a variety of titles around the world. My copy hails from Mexico, released by leftist folk label Discos Pueblo, who make their intentions clear in a statement (machine-translated by me) on the back of the sleeve that reads in part:

“We find it necessary to point out that due to its quality and value, Victor Jara’s work should be disseminated, but always by those who identify with it, and not by the transnational companies that financed his return to Chile by organizing the bloody military coup of 1973. [Ed. Something in their use of word “retorno” is probably being lost in translation here; I think it implies something like Jara’s “return to whence he came,” e.g. his burial in Chilean soil.] Those transnational corporations that today benefit from Victor Jara’s singing, filtering out its combative aspects and presenting it as incomplete, seem to ignore the deep paths that people use to preserve the integrity of the voice of their singers. This album is our answer.”

The LP is clearly a work of love (and economy), the sleeve purposely left unglued so that it can be opened like a gatefold, revealing testimonies by his peers. There’s scarcely an inch that isn’t crammed with text—even the flaps that cradle the inner sleeve itself hide lyrics to two of the album’s key songs:

The sleeve unfolded.

“I don’t sing for the sake of singing, or for having a good voice, I sing because the guitar has sense and reason, it has a heart of earth and wings of a dove, it is like holy water that blesses my sorrows. This is where my song fits, as Violeta said, a hard-working guitar that smells of spring. It is not a rich man’s guitar or anything like that, my song is the scaffolding to reach the stars. The song has meaning when it beats in the veins of the one who will die singing truths, not fleeting flattery or foreign fame, but the song of a lark to the bottom of the earth. There, where everything arrives and where everything begins, a song that has been brave will always be a nueva cancion [New Song].”

Jara’s artistry (which, besides spearheading the nueva cancion movement, also included poetry and theatrical direction) was inseparable from his politics, and the music of Manifiesto is a stirring testament to his talents and the historical moment he occupied, when Chile like Cuba before it seemed on the verge of breaking free from centuries of resource extraction-driven imperialism and making its own way. These songs cannot help but feel elegiac given the circumstances of their release, and indeed they do frequently mourn the historical oppression of the common worker. Jara’s was a lark’s voice, not that of a conventional rabble rouser, and most of these songs seem best suited for night-time gatherings of comrades and lovers or, in the case of the dazzling instrumental “Caicai Vilu” (referencing a Mapuche creation myth), perhaps a rural cotillion. But these songs were recorded during the years of Salvador Allende’s triumph, a movement that Jara had personally helped galvanize, and there is the sense that these are songs about moving in a changed world that still feels almost surreal. Only at the very end, with the rock-inflected call to arms “Canto libre,” does Jara’s Revolutionary sentiment take on a more martial beat, finally unfurling a flag of victory.

That victory would be short-lived of course, as U.S. imperialists would soon back Pinochet’s reign of terror and grind the Chilean people under the heel of fascism for another generation. It’s hard to make an argument that Jara and Allende’s side “won” in any meaningful sense (without an appeal to some abstracted moral arbiter anyway). It may be blinkered to even try, knowing that Pinochet died obscenely wealth in his nineties and that there were never meaningful consequences for his even wealthier American backers, while a despairing Allende perished at his own hand and Jara with his fingers broken and his body riddled with bullets. Yet I do believe that a song can transcend the accounting of atrocities and persist on its own terms. Music like Jara’s will endure as long as there are human beings who seek a recognition of their own worthiest qualities in art. As one of the Mexican edition’s compilers says:

“…his voice will not have coffins or crematoriums, nor dark prisons nor barbed wire, comrades! His voice and his guitar continue the fight, they remain alive seeking victory. And they will also return as flags when the Homeland regains its joy.”

312/365

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

Happy birthday, June Millington! (b. April 14, 1948)

"I don’t think I came to music. I think music came to me—or was already embedded when I came into this sphere, this realm, this Earth. And that feels really good because it’s part of the fabric that makes me feel a part of everything." (x)

[unicornery]

Poll:

[ssavaart]

Ooh. This is SO GEN X.... hopefully some of you younger ones will get it too.

[eroticlamb]

kate bush featured on top pop (tv), march 1978 ꩜

[70sgroovy]

susan sarandon in "the rocky horror picture show", 1975

[melomancy]

Kate Bush performing in Japan, 1978

[orbitsdesk]

comment on 10cc - im not in love

[skinkmi]

An incredible photo of Paul Simonon, bassist for The Clash, with his serious and intense expression. Paul wears a black jacket with metallic zippers, his hair is short and light.

[bayareabadboy]

Jimi Hendrix

[outromoony]

"I'm not like other girls." Well, that's good for you, but I am. I love reading books and fanfics. I love obsessing over fictional characters and screaming music at the top of my lungs. I love fangirling over celebrities and getting overly invested in ships that will never be canon. I cry over sad endings and laugh at memes no one else understands. I love getting way too excited over small things, daydreaming about impossible scenarios, and staying up late to finish just one more chapter. I love getting lost in fictional worlds, losing sleep over them, and rewatching my favorite shows a million times. I love spending hours scrolling through fan art and feeling alive through the stories, music, and love for people I will never meet. I love being like other girls.

[mywifeleftme]

316: Toto Bissainthe // Chante Haïti

Chante Haïti Toto Bissainthe 1977, Arion

“These songs are mostly slave songs taken from the Vodou cult. They speak of the quotidian, of the suffering of exile, and the desire of Africa, not as a geographical place but as a mythical land of freedom. They express their resistance and their refusal: resistance to the colonizer, refusal of his politics, of his religion, of his culture, of his language.”

So begins Toto Bissainthe’s statement on the rear of Chante Haïti, her 1977 collaboration with a small combo of Antillean folk and French jazz musicians: vocalists Marie-Claude Benoît and Mariann Mathéus; percussionists Akonio Dolo and Mino Cinélu (Miles Davis, Weather Report, Gong); Patrice Cinélu on acoustic guitar; and Beb Guérin on the double bass. The songs indeed fuse the Vodou ritual of her native Haiti with the European avant garde sounds of her adopted milieu of Paris, where she had moved to pursue acting and found herself a de facto exile due to the political situation back home. Bissainthe had become a prominent figure in the French theatre, performing in new plays by Beckett and Genet and co-founding Les Griots, France’s first Black theatre company; by the late ‘70s, she was an acclaimed recording artist to boot. Her accomplishments made her a prominent figure in the Haitian diaspora and her activist streak is apparent throughout Chante Haïti, explicitly linking the grief and yearning for liberation in these traditional ceremonials with the country’s contemporary struggles.

Like many songs on the album, the Creole words of opener “Soley danmbalab” mourn the people's estrangement from Mother Africa, a crossing which can neither be reversed or repeated. It begins like a field recording, Bissainthe’s soulful, Miriam Makeba-esque voice set to a chorus of rattles and bells and gurgling masculine whispers. As the song develops, her melody wends like a stream through the dense jungle of percussion, dissonant bass, and counterpoint chanting. Eventually, Mino Cinélu’s arrangement becomes more free, the male chorus imploring the Oungan (a male Vodou priest) to intercede with the creator on the people’s behalf as the tune breaks down into an increasingly abstract bass and drum interplay, while the three female singers exchange birdlike vocal improvisations.

“Ibo Ogoun (Variations)” is even wilder, evoking a trance ritual, the spirits speaking in many tongues through the celebrants as they seek to summon Ogun, God of Iron and War, to lead the battle of liberation. One of the male percussionists times his tanbou beat so that it hits just as he sings certain notes, creating the illusion that he voice has suddenly lurched down an octave for a moment, almost like a DJ freaking a vocal sample. Bissainthe, Mathéus, and Benoît match the intense drumming with some crazy syncopations, sometimes talking, sometimes hissing and whispering, sometimes wailing and ululating.

Most of the album takes on a more meditative tact, anchored by Guérin’s plangent double bass. On the smoky “Papadanbalab,” an entreaty to the serpent creator Damballa to bear witness to the penury of his people, Bissainthe sways over a slinky jazz bass line, Patrice Cinélu adding mellow acoustic fusion licks. The song seems like a brief stopover in a Parisian club. But even the less overtly intense tracks pack plenty of musical interest. “Lamize pa dous” has this hypnotic rhythm that sounds exactly like a micro house beat—in fact, the first thing it made me think of was Ricardo Villalobos’ Alcachofa, or Animal Collective at their campfire ravingest. The song is about the moment of surrender to death, the winnowing of time represented by water encroaching on all sides, the realization too late that “we spend our lives trying to fill the sea with stones.”

Listening to a record like this, especially in light of Bissainthe’s note on the back excoriating the colonialist ethnographer who reduces Haitian folklore to “excitement and violence,” requires at least a smidgen of awareness from the white listener that Chante Haïti is not intended for them. The traditions it engages with are of deep spiritual significance to many Haitians, both in the ‘70s and today. But for those inside and outside the culture who are willing to approach it with respect, Chante Haïti is a fascinating fusion of Antillean and European musics, and a peek into a profound and secret history.

316/365

[transit-fag]

Doing a poll on 70s music as a whole since I did a poll on disco