Belle & Sebastian - Funny Little Frog

(Rough Trade, 2005)

Until The Life Pursuit, Belle and Sebastian had kept a remarkably tidy discography. You had your albums and you had your EPs and that was it. No spreading of B-sides across multi-part singles and pricey import editions (with a few minor exceptions, like the extended “Judy is a Dick Slap” on the “Legal Man” 12”). So imagine how I cursed the heavens when, in 2005, the band started releasing singles with different tracks on different formats… now a guy needs to buy a CD, a 7”, and a DVD in order to collect all the latest B-sides. So it goes. Luckily my wallet is so fat.

Belle and Sebastian’s arrangements have become ever more intricate over the years – especially since their work on the Storytelling soundtrack – and the bright, brassy “Funny Little Frog” continues the trend. The upbeat, sophisticated Hazlewoodisms heard here are miles from the fragile acoustic sobfests that characterized the earliest B&S records; this is a fun, attention-grabbing pop hit. Stuart Murdoch has also widened his lyrical scope significantly since the late ’90s and, in the process, become quite the humorist; this song, for example, is sung from the perspective of a fellow who “dates” a girl who is perfect but doesn’t actually know him. Clever stuff, ol’ Stuart! Rough times on the flip, where it’s hard to care too much about “The Eighth Station of the Cross Kebab House, ” a track that seems to be about an Israeli-Palestianian cross-cultural love affair and is driven by an almost Latin beat. Musically, it doesn’t fit in with the rest of the era’s material, and it’s appropriate that it has been relegated to B-side status. Still, it’s certainly not the strongest song with which to usher in the era in which completists are expected to shell out for every B&S import 7” to hit the racks…

Bee Gees - I Started A Joke

(RSO, 1974)

Well, I get around with a cane now. I have sustained some mysterious injury to my left foot that has made walking almost impossible, necessitating the purchase of a handsome aluminum cane that helps me hobble here and there about the town. But despite the prestige and air of distinction the walking stick gives me, this is an annoying – not to mention painful – state of affairs. And to make matters worse, here’s another one of these damned Mexican EPs. As usual, it’s a seemingly random grab-bag of tracks, this time drawing from 1968 (two songs), 1970, and 1972. Old faves “Words” and “I Started a Joke” get trotted out for the zillionth go-round, though it’s always nice to hear Robin’s ultra-dramatic and lyrically bizarre “…Joke” again and again. “Run to Me” and “Don’t Forget to Remember” are, for good reason, lesser-known hits. The former sees the Bee Gees in their early-’70s rut, churning out overwrought melancholia that crawls by at a snail’s pace with little of the charm or interesting arrangements heard on past material. “Don’t Forget to Remember” is an awkward attempt at a country-flavored heartbreak ballad, further hobbled by its gooey strings. All of these songs are easily found elsewhere, and the sleeve isn’t even interesting; why own this? Good question! OK, now here’s one for all of the podiatrists in the crowd: What does it mean when there is an excruciating, stabbing pain in the arch of your foot every time you put any weight on it?

Bee Gees - Lamplight

(Polydor, 1973)

Ready for a dull review? Released in Mexico while the band’s snooze-inducing Life in a Tin Can was busy tanking, this is an odds-and-ends EP that plucks love songs from 1967 (“To Love Somebody”), 1969 (“Lamplight”), and 1971 (“How Can You Mend a Broken Heart”). The grandiose “Lamplight” is dominated by Robin’s high-pitched warble, with bright-sounding acoustic guitars and syrupy strings underneath. The payoff when the beautiful chorus hits makes it worth a listen, but the song just isn’t that memorable or well-constructed; here, orchestral ambition has made the fellas forget that you need to keep things tight and coherent (a problem on much of the Odessa album from which this is taken). Adult soft-pop is the name of the game on “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” a delicate little wimpfest that might have one of the group’s best melodies ever. Deservedly a big smash, so why not weep to it tonight when you’re all alone? The stylistic hodge-podge continues with a shockingly mature track from the band’s first album, the white-as-fuck soul of “To Love Somebody.” Gold star for Barry, who gives a sassy performance that has more than a whiff of the distinctive vocal style he’d develop in the mid-’70s. Ought to mention as well that Eric Burdon and the Animals recorded a histrionic, seven-minute cover of this one in the late ’60s for their Love Is album. Find it and soak your ears in self-indulgence!

Bee Gees - Words EP

(Polydor, 1968)

Ah, the early Bee Gees. Look no further if you seek the “at” at which it’s at! This stuff is consistently outstanding, and it should blow away whatever early-80s popular-culture disco-backlash hangover might still be foolishly coloring your preconceptions of the group. The Bee Gees were a fairly democratic five-piece in their early days – the Gibbs plus Vince Melouney and Colin Petersen – and while they very much wrote for the pop market/charts, they typically brought an intense sense of drama and seriousness to their weird little tunes, most of which were heavily orchestrated with an odd chamber-psych sound. Love songs about death row? “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You.” Upbeat songs about alcoholism? “Indian Gin and Whisky Dry.” Songs about being buried alive? “New York Mining Disaster 1941.” AND SO FORTH! They mighta dressed every track to the nines (TENS?!?) in strings, horns, and xylophones, but the melodies and harmonies were ALWAYS beautifruggingtardedly memorable. Always!

And sure nuff, this Portugese EP sees the kiddies hitting their stride with four lush, ambitious, feelings-drenched mini-soaps, two of which are from the Horizontal LP, two of which are non-album. “Words” is just piano and a pleading Barry vocal before, at the second verse, swelling into a tasteful full-orchestra arrangement that is pretty enough and sweet enough to tamp down what would otherwise be quite reasonable accusations of appalling sappiness. In a similarly maudlin vein, droning organ and strings underpin a more mournful Barry on “With the Sun in My Eyes,” which is perhaps as psychedelic a lovelorn croonfest as ever you’ll hear. Then it’s time for more emotional sun-fun with “And the Sun Will Shine,” a slightly rockier ballad – in the drums, primarily – this time featuring Robin’s quivering lead. But! BUT! The TOTAL EARTH-SHATTERING MASTERPIECE on here is the rousing “Sinking Ships,” which has a beefy pre-Fridmann – dig them bells – arrangement, cryptic yet moving lyrics, and soaring vocals (when they up the volume and break into that “Take a look inside myself…” bit: YOW!). This was a B-side?! Generosity, thy name is Gibb!! Which is precisely why you oughta right now be buying Rhino’s reissues of the first three Bee Gee albums, each of which includes a full disc of outtakes and non-LP rarities. Rethink everything you ever pre-thunk once you spin these thingies! Solid gold. Bee Gees? More like BEE’S KNEES!!!!

Look, I tried. It’s late.

Beck - Cellphone's Dead

(Interscope, 2006)

Sleek, well-produced robo-funk on “Cellphone’s Dead” that stakes out a stylistic middle-ground of sorts between Midnite Vultures and Odelay. The song is even bookended by a rolling, faintly tropical percussion-based jam that recalls the Mutations era. Appealing on paper, perhaps, but there’s no strong hook anywhere, and the track, not the best choice for a single, has simply never grabbed me. It’s actually a perfect example of the type of inoffensive mediocrity that Beck is prone to churning out these days… I don’t mind the song while it’s playing – might even enjoy it – but once the needle lifts I’ve already forgotten it and feel no need to play the thing again.

However, let’s give credit where it’s due: “O Menina” (which appears on some versions of the album as a bonus track) is fun; it’s a hand-clappin’, cowbell-clankin’ half-rap that grooves a whole lot looser than anything Beck has done in years, even if it is far too brief. Proof the dude can still pull it off from time to time.

Beck - Girl

(Interscope, 2005)

It occurs to me that my apartment has smelled of smoke for about 24 hours. It further occurs to me that my building burning down, with me and all my possessions in it, would seriously “cramp my style” when it comes to reviewing all of these crazy 7”s. Let me go sniff around.

[five minutes later] Good news: I’m back, and no more crispy than I was at the beginning of this review! No sign of a blaze, so I guess it must’ve just been one H*CK of a Super Bowl party – grillin’ and everything – by my downstairs neighbors. Hey, don’t ever stop a-rockin’, downstairs neighbors of mine! I know you won’t! NEVER!

Yeah, so… Beck.

The thing is, I don’t DISLIKE Guero or The Information. Honest. But I don’t – and can’t – LOVE them, either. See, you can use “crafted” as either a compliment or a sort of sneering insult, and both senses of the word apply to those records; Beck was putting a tremendous amount of effort and care into his songs, but while he was creating superficially pleasant music, most of it lacked the rollicking charm of his earlier material and was ultimately flabby and forgettable (betcha you can hum, say, seven songs off of Odelay. Can you do that for Guero or The Information??). What’s funny about that is it makes SINGLES the optimal way to experience latter-day Beck: Removed from the sonic Kansas of his endlessly-tinkered-with LPs, individual songs do have a chance to distinguish themselves as nifty little self-contained pop nuggets. “Girl” is definitely one of ’em. Those pop smarts are sharp as ever, the singing is strong, there’s the Dust Brother ultra-layered mix of homey/lo-fi guitar and blippy electronics over a locked-in beat… I mean, it’s all kinda over-perfect, but the melody is strong, and while, yeah, it all reeks of teacher-pleasin’ gymnastics, in the end it still scores a respectable B- or so. Sticks in the cranium for a while!

Oh, and remixes? OF COURSE! The skittery Octet version on the flip adds nervous percussive elements that, interestingly, illuminate some of the buried insecurity of the lyrics, but it’s musically unfocused, doesn’t sustain listenability, and is in no way built for repeated plays. Thing shows up on the Guerolito remix LP anyway, so no need to get too hot for this 7”, unless picture discs hold some sort of special fascination.

By which I mean: Do they? Is that your thing? Let’s meet!

Beck - Mixed Bizness

(Geffen, 2000)

Beck kinda lost me around this time, as his songs started disappearing within the overstuffed production and the fun seemed more and more forced. “Mixed Bizness” is a sleek funk party jam, but it all feels cold, empty, professional. There was a ramshackle goofiness, a discernable personality, on his earlier work, lost now under the relentless lover-man posturing and studio craftsmanship (even though I do laugh at that “Pour champagne on a honeybee” line). Much worse is the unnecessary “Dirty Bixin Mixness” version on the B-side – I doubt any Beck song was remixed more times and with less rewards than “Mixed Bizness” – which brings the percussion to the forefront and makes it sound like, uh, a Fatboy Slim single. Pass.