Article first published as Book Review: Composed: A Memoir by Rosanne Cash on Blogcritics.

Our last post on living, breathing artists led me to another crisis in confidence. Just what is this blog all about? Why keep blathering on about music that, with the possible exception of The Black Keys, most humans simply don’t care about?

Then I came across a passage in Rosanne Cash’s new book, “Composed: A Memoir,” that also could serve as RCR’s mission statement:

“We all need art and music like we need blood and oxygen. The more exploitative, numbing, and assaulting popular culture becomes, the more we need the truth of a beautifully phrased song, dredged from a real person’s depth of experience, delivered in an honest voice; the more we need the simplicity of paint on canvas, or the arc of a lonely body in the air, or the photographer’s unflinching eye. Art, in the larger sense, is the lifeline to which I cling in a confusing, unfair, sometimes dehumanizing world.”

I’ve been a fan of Cash’s ever since “King’s Record Shop” was released back in 1987. And I have to admit, her music doesn’t sit comfortably next to a lot of stuff I listen to. Nor would anyone confuse the writing on this site with the kind of intense, deeply reflective, almost painstakingly eloquent language found in “Composed.” Let me put it this way: Rosanne Cash will not be appearing at a chuckle-hut near you.

But she’s had a long-standing gig at my house. I may have been raised on the Stones, but my daughters were raised on Rosanne Cash – along with other alt-country favorites like Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, Dwight Yoakam and Gillian Welch (for some reason, my girls didn’t take to Howlin’ Wolf… although Meghan loves Taj Mahal). Rosanne’s highly literate songs provided the soundtrack to many of our trips south. And even though my youngest eventually moved on to hip-hop and rap, I’m sure she still has a soft spot for Cash’s “The Wheel.” Fire of the Newly Alive

Cash brings the same sensitive touch to “Composed.” And her descriptions of growing up in a musical family especially resonated with me. We’re sort of the Cash family in reverse. Although my brothers and sister remain active and performing musicians (and I’m considering a return to service), all of the fame and notoriety has landed on the next generation as nephew Dan Auerbach – and his musical soulmate in the Keys, Pat Carney – continue their march toward world domination. Granted, they may never be as recognized and beloved as Johnny Cash, but there’s still plenty of time.

Much of “Composed” is about the many ways that fame can change those who enter the celebrity funhouse, either voluntarily (friends and second spouses, for example) or otherwise (immediate family). I enjoyed Rosanne’s stories of the time she spent in London, working in a low-level artists relations job for CBS Records simply because she happened to be Johnny Cash’s daughter. She had no illusions about the experience, perfectly understanding why some people treated her with great deference, and appreciating it when others didn’t. She was determined to make the best of the situation – and her father’s patronage – as she partied her way through a pleasant yet frivolous assignment.

Of course, there are larger themes to “Composed” – including death, motherhood and the challenge of struggling with addictive personalities (a theme that Cash felt was grossly overblown in the movie “Walk the Line”). Another big theme involves sacrifice. What does it take to really make your way in the world as an artist; to build your entire life around creating art, and doing it on your own terms?

Cash is philosophical in describing her own journey from Nashville hit-maker to a well-respected singer-songwriter with her dignity intact. In earnest and artful language, she takes us through the process of starting over again – of leaving behind a certain level of success and comfort to head into the great unknown, with only your creative instincts to guide you. But the true meaning of sacrifice is often revealed in the most mundane details, like the way Cash describes the simple act of flying:

“I have been in planes that have been struck by lightning, surrounded by tornadoes, diverted to new and even more miserably inconvenient destinations; planes whose landing gear failed to descend, engines conked out, wings clipped the ground and spewed rivets across the runway, takeoffs and landings have been aborted in snow and ice storms and violent winds and rain; planes that dropped so fast and so far that people literally hit the ceiling; and once, on a nearly empty late-night flight into Nashville, the pilot sent an attendant back just after the landing to ask me if I knew where Gate 4 was, since he thought I had probably landed at this particular airport more than he had. And I had.”

On more than one occasion, I’ve stared at an opportunity as a full-time traveling musician, and then looked away – mainly because I knew deep down that I couldn’t handle life on the road, especially in a third-tier band. But even a steady string of local gigs can take their toll (especially before the indoor smoking ban took effect). As my wife points out, we were tossed off more than a few social calendars because of my busy playing schedule. And after moving back to town in ’91, I went 10 consecutive years playing shitty (but well-paying) gigs on New Year’s Eve while my wife stayed home to entertain our daughters. Someday I’ll figure out how to make it up to her.

But all this pales in comparison to the act of ripping yourself away from home and family for huge chunks of the year to make money on the road. And touring income has become even more essential for bands today as CD sales are eclipsed by file-sharing and other acts of digital thievery (I confess, I’m not without sin).

Cash doesn’t try to gain our sympathy for millionaire artists. Whether she’s making somber observations about the creative process or describing a major fuck-up at the airport, she’s simply sharing the basic realities of life as a working musician. And, to her credit, she doesn’t make much of a distinction between that pursuit and the art of everyday living – like her late mother’s gardening. It’s just that when you play on a bigger stage, you usually give up a lot more to get there. Thankfully, modern-day road dogs like Cash and The Black Keys still find a way to make it work, so their inspiring shows can help us feel just a little bit better about life on planet earth.

A number of years ago, I read a newspaper column by some Big Gulp-swilling soccer mom that really rubbed me the wrong way. I’ll paraphrase: “Music really mattered when we were kids… Then we grew up, bought houses, had kids of our own, raised families and came to realize music really isn’t that important at all. Now we revel in the music of life.” Or some such drivel.

What I wanted to say to this nitwit was, surely there’s a form of art – movies, painting, gardening, woodworking – that still feeds your soul, no matter how much it’s shrunk over the years. For some of us, that form of art is music. And despite Rubber City Review’s best (and worst) attempts to keep it light, we’re dead serious about the music and artists we love and write about.

Rosanne Cash’s touch is far from light. But I blasted right through the fussiest language in her book – because at its core, “Composed” is all about the serious business of passing rich musical traditions from one generation to the next.

The List… Musical inheritance doesn’t get more real than this: Alarmed by his daughter’s lack of knowledge about American roots music (Rosanne had a good excuse – she grew up in Southern California), Johnny Cash jotted down a list he called “100 Essential Country Songs.” But as Rosanne Cash points out in the liner notes to her latest release, “The List,” “he could have called it ’100 Essential American Songs,’ because he included history songs, protest songs, early folk songs, Delta Blues, gospel, Texas swing, and standards that simply defy genre.” Thirty-five years went by before Rosanne got up the nerve to reinterpret a few of these tunes on record, and the results are a little mixed. The requisite guest artists don’t add much (with the exception of Bruce Springsteen, who brings a wonderful harmony voice to Sea of Heartbreak). But Rosanne’s cover of Motherless Children, by the always popular “Public Domain,” is one of the best versions I’ve heard of a song that has suffered many indignities over the years. And it’s all in the voice – no gospelly histrionics; just an honest, heartfelt read of an American classic: Motherless Children

Other Rubber City Review posts that have appeared on Blogcritics:
o Juliet, Naked… with the Fat Man in the Bathtub (Editors’ Pick)
o The World’s Greatest Advertising Jingle (Editors’ Pick)
o Guns, Drugs, Money and Vinyl… Welcome to School Kids

Those of you who’ve stuck with us over the past year might remember a post I wrote a while back called “Tim’s Top Six.” It was a less-than-subtle attempt to prove that I pay attention to music recorded sometime after the advent of the 8-track tape.

Almost a year has gone by since that post, which gave me just enough time to come up with six more contemporary releases worthy of comment. And when I say “contemporary,” I’m referring to songs recorded and released over the last 10 or so years. What can I say? If you’re looking for urgent missives about the indie band du jour, you’ve come to the wrong place. As my cousin Robert liked to say, “if they’re not dead, I’m not interested.” I’m a little more inclusive than Rob (himself deceased) in that some of the folks I write about technically still have a pulse. But given the choice between listening to Dead Weather or dead blues guys… well, you should know by now where I’m going to land.

Somehow, I missed out on Jimbo Mathus’ previous band, the Squirrel Nut Zippers (maybe I thought they were just another retro-swing band). But his “Knockdown South” release from 2005 certainly got my attention. Mathus is the proprietor of Delta Recording Service, a vintage studio (now in Como, MS) where Elvis Costello and others have gone to try to capture the Sound of the Delta – that timeless, earthy vibe that one wouldn’t typically associate with someone like, say, Elvis Costello. Maybe Mathus should spend more time recording himself. As an unreconstructed son of the South, he sounds perfectly comfortable moving from greasy, juke-joint blues to fatback soul to honky tonk… filtered through cheap guitars and overdriven tube amps squealing for mercy. As the folks at Fat Possum Records in nearby Oxford like to say, not the same old blues crap: Crazy Bout You/Jimbo Mathus

It shouldn’t surprise you that Patty Griffin’s latest, “Downtown Church,” was recorded in an urban place of worship. But the twist here is that I came across this release through the depths of hell – also known as the new season of HBO’s gorefest, “True Blood.” At the end of a recent episode, I was startled to hear Griffin’s version of a Leiber and Stoller tune called I Smell A Rat (Big Mama Thornton ripped it to pieces back in ‘54). Maybe it’s because I’ve always thought of Griffin as a thoughtful and sensitive singer-songwriter – and believe me, there’s a healthy amount of well-mannered material on “Church,” with sympathetic backing from guitarist Buddy Miller and other first-call Nashville cats. But she throws enough soul and swagger into Rat to make me wonder where that voice has been all this time. All I can say is, give me some more… I Smell a Rat/Patty Griffin

Alternative country icon Steve Earle has been very prolific since he emerged from the slammer clean and sober back in ‘94. And prolificacy (much like profligacy) ain’t necessarily a good thing. You can find a fair amount of duds on his recent albums, but let’s at least give him credit for taking the same “throw enough shit against the wall” approach that Phil Collins famously copped to back in his hit-making days – and, creatively speaking, coming up with far better results. Let’s also praise Earle for trying to turn the mandolin into a bona fide rock ‘n roll instrument. I’m sure you recall the hard-driving acoustic riff that opened Earle’s sole hit, Copperhead Road. Pretty cool, but I prefer Harlan Man from “Just an American Boy,” an audio journal (also documented on film) of live performances back in 2002. “I got me two good hands, and as long as I’m able I won’t give in… ‘cause I’m a Harlan Man, a coal-minin’ mother ‘til the day I’m dead.” When it comes to people and mountains, no one writes ‘em like Steve Earle. Harlan Man/Steve Earle

Precious Bryant is the kind of blues artist we need right now. Not some Stevie Ray wannabe trying to shred his way onto the next version of Guitar Hero. Precious plays simple, stripped-down songs, often only accompanied by the soothing sound of her Piedmont-style guitar playing. Songs like Don’t Let The Devil Ride, Morning Train and The Truth. And whether they come from her own pen or “anonymous,” they all sound deeply rooted in southern traditions that modern-day carpetbaggers just can’t kill. Precious hails from Talbot County, Georgia – about 90 miles due west of my mom’s former homestead in Milledgeville… maybe that’s why these gentle blues and gospel songs sound so familiar to me. But her 2005 release – named after her wonderful original, The Truth – adds just enough gutbucket rhythm to rescue it from the realm of ethnomusicology. For that, we can thank the Atlanta-based label Terminus Records, home to the same kind of roots music zealots who are keeping the form alive at Fat Possum. Don’t Jump My Pony/Precious Bryant

British soul crooner and ace guitarist James Hunter caused quite a stir when he released “People Gonna Talk” back in 2006. It seemed to arrive fully formed from some distant land where Sam Cooke somehow emerged alive from the Hacienda Motel and went on to record the album he always wanted to make. You can argue whether “People” is a little too much of a loving tribute… and I have to admit that Hunter’s follow-up, “The Hard Way,” had a little of that “whipping a dead horse” feel (OK, maybe a newly deceased stallion). But I can’t get enough of the originals that Hunter recorded in 2005 at Toe Rag Studios in London, with producer/proprietor/analog wizard Liam Watson at the helm. Hunter spent several years as Van Morrison’s guitarist. I haven’t heard any recent recording by Van the Man that can match the blue-eyed soul that Hunter lays down here (starts in with the guitar solo – one of my all-time favorites)… All Through Cryin’/James Hunter

I’m going back a little further than I want to on this last one – 1998, to be precise. But I completely lock into this tune every time I hear it. Crazyhorse Mongoose was the title song on the second album released by New Orleans-based jazz-funk outfit Galactic. The band’s main weapon is the mighty Stanton Moore on drums. And if you’re partial to Galactic’s herb-influenced, jam-band voodoo, you might want to check out some of the fine, funky stuff Moore’s released under his own name and with other configurations like Garage a Trois (with the amazing 8-string guitarist Charlie Hunter). I’m a little indifferent to some of Galactic’s material, but Crazyhorse sounds to me like a long-lost Blue Note classic. Written by sax player Ben Ellman and bassist Robert Mercurio, it moves seamlessly from one irresistible riff to another. Think Horace Silver jacked up on Red Bull, and maybe a little herb. Crazyhorse Mongoose/Galactic

Precious Bryant on video – probably somewhere in Georgia’s Lower Chattahoochee Valley, playing a tune originally recorded as Me and My Chauffeur Blues by Memphis Minnie in 1941…

A 56-year-old rockabilly legend teams up with some hungry young hotshots… throws them 16 hard-bitten songs that are ready to burn… and then lets it rip in an old-school analog studio, where everything is recorded in glorious mono. An instant classic? Maybe in a parallel universe, where Elvis swears off pharmaceuticals and fried banana sandwiches. In the real world, it’s just another great record that few people heard before it dropped off the face of the earth.

Of course, it didn’t help that the label, Upstart, quietly folded only a few years after the record was released in 1996. Or that the artist, Ronnie Dawson, only had about five good years left in him before he died of throat cancer in 2003. Or that rockabilly remains a genre of limited interest to most people.

Dawson, aka “The Blonde Bomber,” was no stranger to adversity. A native of Dallas, he was surrounded by music as a kid – his dad, “Pinky,” fronted his own western swing band. The younger Dawson soon picked up the guitar and became a teen sensation playing rock ‘n roll and honky tonk music in the Dallas area. And he quickly gained the attention of the ageless one himself, Dick Clark, who signed him to his Swan label. But then Clark and his label got caught up in the “payola” scandal of the late-‘50s that also dragged down former Rubber City DJ Alan Freed. And Dawson was sent adrift, without a label or opportunities to capitalize on his early hits, like Action Packed or this one… Rockin’ Bones

A Young Blonde Bomber

The Blonde Bomber eventually signed with Columbia, where he recorded several first-rate singles. I especially like the B side to Do Do Do, released in ’61. It’s a churning blues-rocker called Who’s Been Here, with Dawson (under the alias Commonwealth Jones) wailing away in his high-pitched, almost otherworldly voice… Who’s Been Here

Dawson also carved out a niche for himself as a multi-instrumental session player, even showing up as a drummer on notable rockers like Hey! Baby by Bruce Channel and Hey Paula by Paul and Paula (effectively cornering the “hey” market). But he always remained well under the radar screen – except in Europe, where his rockabilly hits were revered by roots-music fanatics throughout the Continent.

In his book “Texas Music” (published in 1998), journalist Rick Koster tags Dawson as a “Criminally Underrated Artist”: “Ronnie Dawson is an ageless phenomenon, a fire-fingered genius who helped create rockabilly and then resurrected it forty years later – all without seeming to move in time.”

Eddie Angel

Beginning in the late ‘80s, Dawson decided to build on his newfound cult status across the pond by recording several albums in England. I especially like the previously mentioned release from ’96, “Just Rockin’ & Rollin’” – mainly because it features the blazing guitars of Los Straitjackets member Eddie Angel and another young turk, Amsterdam native Tjarko Jeen. And Dawson, who had been shredding since his teens, brought his own bag of tricks to the proceedings. I’m not sure who’s who on this next cut (I think Jeen takes the first solo, then Angel), but it’s pretty clear these guys came to play… Sucker For A Cheap Guitar

As you can tell, the album was recorded in near-complete denial of the improvements that had been made in studio technology since the first rockabilly records were waxed in the mid-‘50s. And this, of course, is another one of its key strengths. It’s as if someone had rescued the “Rockin’” sessions from a long-lost tape discovered at a garage sale in Memphis. Just Rockin’ and Rollin’

Tjarko Jeen

But this is hardly just another form of retro-mania. For a fairly hard-core rockabilly cat, Dawson brought a nice diversity of material to the Upstart project. A couple of songs even fall under the category of border-rock. In a 1999 article that appeared in the Dallas Observer, Dawson mentioned that he was inspired to write Mexigo and Veronica after sharing the stage with conjunto accordionist Mingo Saldivar in 1994 at Carnegie Hall, where both men performed as part of a roots-revivalist showcase. “Wearing a big grin, Dawson says they’re ‘conjuntobilly’ songs,” noted writer Robert Wilonsky. Here’s a little visit to Mexigo.

Even with these side trips thrown in, “Rockin’” comes across exactly as billed – no-frills rock ‘n roll made by grown men with bad habits and scars to prove it… You Got a Long Way to Go

Dawson recorded two more albums after “Rockin’” – “Live at the Continental Club” (released in ‘98) and “More Bad Habits” (’99) – and kept touring like his life depended on it… which was probably the case, given the shamanistic powers of his live performances. And even though he couldn’t beat the Big C, his legacy lives on through classic rockers that bear the unique stamp of this bigger-than-life Texan.

The Blonde Bomber, live at L.A.’s Blue Saloon (Nov. 1990)… Dawson backed by a great rockabilly and western swing band from Southern California, Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys. I love how this amateur video seems to drop you right in front of the band at one of those small bars where a stage seemed like a frivolous expense. So good, I had to include two clips (Dawson’s beaming grin during V-8 Ford Boogie seems to say it all)…

At what point did we know that the box set was deceased?

Was it when the German Bear Family label released a 12-CD collection (with hardcover book) of Pat Boone’s complete ‘50s recordings? Or when America’s leading reissue label, Rhino Records, laid off 20 percent of its staff – resigning itself to the fact that the vast majority of people under 30 refuse to pay for music?

Regardless, it’s been a good run for those of us who like to deep-dive into our favorite artists’ back catalogs. So let’s cherish the digital memories… even as we curse the unwieldy cardboard boxes taking up valuable shelf space in our partially assembled particle-board entertainment centers.

Here’s the rest of the list we started in our last post – five more box sets that you probably don’t have the time to listen to (although one kept me from going insane during a major paint removal project).

Sonny Rollins: The Complete Prestige Recordings… Members of the assembly, have we grown soft worshipping false idols? There is only one Greek god of the saxophone, and his name is Rollins. Let us bow down as he hurls mighty bolts of power and majesty from his throne atop Mount Colossus. Sorry… I get a little giddy listening to the “Complete Prestige Recordings,” which captures the meteoric rise of Sonny Rollins from journeyman be-bopper to one of the true giants of jazz. He was a man of contradictions, a daring soloist who could burn with blazing speed and dexterity but often played his favorite show tunes with great reverence (and maybe just a tinge of irony). And that lyricism often seemed at odds with a sound that was about as bold and muscular as any one man can wring out of an acoustic instrument. There’s a lot of variety in this set as Rollins supports Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk, and even goes head-to-head with John Coltrane on Tenor Madness. But the best tunes are those with Rollins firmly in charge, and the opening to You Don’t Know What Love Is – from his masterpiece, “Saxophone Colossus” – even sets the gold standard for “jazz noir”… You Don’t Know What Love Is

What It Is! Funky Soul and Rare Grooves… Those of you who collect vinyl usually enjoy the act of crate-diving – the thrill of the hunt, as they say. In my younger days, I spent a fair amount of time combing rat-infested record stores. Now I thank god for labels like Rhino Records for doing all the hard work for me and coming up with outstanding collections like “What It Is!” As allmusic.com rightfully points out, “it would cost a fortune to collect these songs in their original form of release.” I say, just bring me the goods – and Rhino delivers. Even hard-core collectors of rare funk and soul give the label credit for digging especially deep to come up with some great hidden gems on this one, although a few of the artists (Aretha, Commodores, Curtis Mayfield) are hardly unknown. In another post, I featured my favorite song from this collection – Fairchild by Willie West. Here’s another standout cut from “What It Is!”… You Gotta Know Watcha Doin’/Charles Wright

Crescent City Soul: The Sound of New Orleans, 1947-1974… In one episode of the new HBO show “Treme,” much is made of an out-of-print box set by famous New Orleans producer, arranger, bandleader and all-around musical wizard Dave Bartholomew (basically, nutjob DJ Davis steals it in an act of revenge). Well, I wouldn’t mind stealing “The Genius of Dave Bartholomew” myself. But in terms of sheer awesomeness, I’d have to give the edge to this 4-CD, 119-song, equally hard-to-find set featuring some of the greatest songs ever recorded in the Crescent City. And yes, Bartholomew has a hand in a lot of them – Trick Bag by Earl King, Stack A Lee by Archibald and Walking to New Orleans by Fats Domino, to name a few. So good, it was named the “official collection of the 1996 New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival.” And so hard to describe in just one paragraph, so I’ll leave you with just two of the many delicious R&B nuggets on “Crescent City Soul.” By the by, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum will honor 89-year-old Bartholomew and long-time musical partner Fats Domino, 82, in its 15th Annual American Musical Masters Series set for this November in Cleveland. I Done Got Over It/Irma Thomas Travellin’ Mood/Wee Willie Wayne

Miles Davis: The Complete Columbia Studio Recordings of the Miles Davis Quintet… Back in the early ’60s, who would’ve thought that Miles Davis could top his legendary quintet with John Coltrane (the one that recorded the classic “Kind of Blue”)? Well, in just a few short years, Miles had assembled a new band that some jazz fanatics simply call “the second great quintet.” Miles, Wayne Shorter on sax, Herbie Hancock on piano, Ron Carter on bass and Tony Williams on drums. It’s no exaggeration to say that hundreds of contemporary jazz acts are modeled after this band. Miles’ new quintet started out deconstructing the same standards that the Miles-Coltrane band perfected – songs like Stella by Starlight and All of You. Then they ventured off into playing original compositions, many by Shorter, that simply served as launching pads for the kind of breathtaking group improvisation heard here… Footprints And toward the end of their tenure, they built the foundation for Miles’ next journey into the land of electric funk… Stuff I’ve listened to this set many times, but I still feel a sense of discovery every time I play it.

Rockin’ Bones: 1950s Punk and Rockabilly… Another fine set from the good folks at Rhino – a wild ride through the many joys of ‘50s rock ‘n roll, hillbilly style. I would’ve been disappointed with another collection of the classic stuff I already own. So I especially like the way this one moves from the familiar (Summertime Blues by Eddie Cochran) to the obscure (Down on the Farm by Al Downing). Of course, rockabilly purists might argue that the set is skewed in favor of the familiar, and some might question the “punk” label being applied to music that appeared some 20 years before the Sex Pistols spat on their first fan (although I’m not sure I can come up with a better label for this next tune, which later was subject to even greater depravity at the hands of psychobilly sickos the Cramps: Love Me/The Phantom). But let’s not pick nits – this is hugely enjoyable stuff. And, since many of the artists are of Appalachian descent, there’s also some first-rate guitar pickin’ throughout. Plus the audio clips from vintage teen-film trailers – like this one and this one – make it even more essential. Play it in your car and obey the speed limit… I dare you. Action Packed/Johnny Dollar

Ten more worth mentioning:

• Joe Henderson: The Blue Note Years… This set features the pride of Lima, Ohio, as bandleader and sideman (with, among others, Lee Morgan, Horace Silver and McCoy Tyner). But it really tells the story of one label’s glory years.
• Sam Cooke’s SAR Records Story… As a label head, Sam Cooke was full of surprises – from the gritty gospel of the Womack Brothers to the juke-joint blues of  Johnnie Morisette.
• Sir Douglas Quintet: The Complete Mercury Recordings… The king of border rock plays some of our farfisa-driven favorites and a whole lot of Texas rock ‘n soul. Plus Mendocino en Español!
• James Brown: Star Time… Still the best funk collection ever assembled. Slap it on at a party and let the games begin.
• The House That Trane Built… Another great overview of a groundbreaking label – in this case, John Coltrane’s last stop, Impulse!
• Cuba: I Am Time… A cigar box that holds the island’s greatest export – a rich musical tradition that contemporary Cuban bands seem to reinvent every day.
• Big Ol’ Box of New Orleans… Some overlap with “Crescent City Soul,” but another outstanding collection of prime R&B from the cradle of American roots music, with more of a modern twist.
• Thelonious Monk: The Columbia Years… An exhaustive set would have many versions of the same composition. Thankfully, this 3-CD set offers a more diverse overview – from solo to big band performances.
• Muddy Waters: The Chess Box… Probably my first box set – a Christmas gift from my mom. She called it “jukin’ music.” I call it the source of all that is good and right in the world.
• Dexter Gordon: The Complete Blue Note Sixties Sessions… A 6-CD meditation on what it means to be “urbane.”

Blues, New Orleans-style… The late, great Earl King at the Chicago Blues Festival, doing that thing that he used to do so well.

Remember the box set? Actually, in a year or two we might be asking ourselves, remember compact discs?

I came fairly late to the CD party – which is probably a good thing, because a research team comprising the world’s leading acousticians recently found that first-generation CDs from the mid-‘80s sound like complete dogshit. All that tinny, undefined high-end noise and hardly any bass. Which is probably fine if you’re listening to tinny, undefined, noisy and baseless pop music from the Eighties, but virtually useless if you’re trying to get your groove on to James Brown and The Fabulous Flames.

Once I started buying CDs, I became one of those maniacal completists who needed to replace virtually his entire record collection with what most of us considered to be a clearly superior format. Yes, I was part of a small army of consumers that kept the major labels propped up about 20 years longer than they deserved.

I won’t even argue that CDs sound better than vinyl. I’ve listened to heavyweight virgin vinyl records played on high-end turntables hooked up to tube-driven amplifiers, and it’s truly a heavenly sound. Just a few weeks ago, nephew Dan convinced me that some 45s actually sound even better than LPs – something about more music data per inch of groove, greater presence and resolution, etc. He played me a French rock ‘n roll single from the early Sixties (might have been Johnny Hallyday), and I couldn’t deny it was sonically superior to the album he had on earlier. Check here for more on this late-breaking news.

But I’m still no audiophile (as evidenced by the term “complete dogshit,” which doesn’t pop up much in Sound and Vision magazine). All things roughly equal – in other words, as long as it wasn’t a Wang Chung CD released in 1984 – I preferred the convenience of slapping a few compact discs in a carousel changer and letting it play all night long. And from there it was just a short walk to endlessly streaming, easily organized mp4 files… preferably played through a tube-driven amp.

Even if CDs become the next casualty in the continued demise of the music industry as we know it, I’ll miss the sheer, tactile pleasures of the box set.

There’s something about those sturdy, attractive booklets with exhaustive information on each recording session – date, studio, producer, engineer, instrumentation, label, chart position, etc… The way everything neatly fits together, like a set of building blocks for kids (appropriate, since we usually give or get box sets for Christmas)… The sense that you’re holding in your hands the most important works of a major recording artist’s entire career – which is probably as enjoyable for me as it is humbling for the artist.

Based on these and other important criteria – like whether I own it – RCR’s research subordinassociates are proud to offer this carefully calibrated list of the 10 Greatest Box Sets of All Time (in no particular order). We’ll apologize in advance for the fact that a few of these are long out of print… and that we’re only covering half of them in this post.

Boogie Uproar: Texas Blues and R&B, 1947-1954… The good Brits who run the JSP label deserve some sort of royal commendation for their consistently first-rate and affordable box sets. If anyone asks me where to start with musical giants like Charlie Parker, Django Reinhardt or Louis Jordan, I just tell them to plunk down $30 (or less, depending on where you shop) and buy one of their budget-priced, five-disc sets – you’ll have just about all the Bird, Django or Jordan you need. Granted, most of that stuff had already been available elsewhere… but you’d be hard-pressed to find virtually all of Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown’s classic Peacock recordings in one place. For those who like slashing Texas blues guitar backed by a tough-as-nails horn section, this is the motherlode. Rounder Records gave us a stingy 12-song Peacock collection back in ’92; JSP ups the ante with 38 cuts of prime Gatemouth… PLUS 35 cuts by an even harder-edged Goree Carter… PLUS four by another overlooked and underrated Texan, Zuzu Bollin… PLUS 18 by the virtually unknown but notable blues shouter/guitarist Lester “I can’t lose with the stuff I use” Williams. And, of course, it took a British label to deliver the goods. Here’s just a small taste… That’s Your Daddy Yaddy Yo/Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown

Grant Green Retrospective: 1961-1966… Next to JSP, the best source for quality box sets is probably the Blue Note jazz label… but it appears they might have released their last set several years ago (another great box-set label, Rhino Records, seems to be struggling). If you can still find them, I highly recommend virtually all of these collections – the complete Blue Note Sixties sessions of Dexter Gordon and Herbie Hancock, the complete Blue Note and Roost recordings of Bud Powell, the Horace Silver retrospective, etc. But if you follow RCR on a fairly regular basis, you know that all of us get a little light-headed when it comes to guitarist Grant Green. We believe every young guitar-shredder in America should be required to listen to Blue Note’s Grant Green Retrospective. It may not stick, but at least they’ll know what a true master sounds like. The first two discs feature some of the best organ-combo tunes ever recorded, including this funky workout featuring the great Big John Patton: Soul Woman And the last two discs show off Green’s prodigious jazz chops in a number of different settings, including one he used to play spirituals (love Hancock’s churchy piano on this one… some jazz is meant to be played loud): Go Down Moses This is beautifully recorded, deeply satisfying stuff – and once you get hooked, you may end up sounding as evangelical as we are about the real pride of St. Louis.

Sonny Boy Williamson: The Chess Years… This is one of my most prized possessions – all of Sonny Boy II’s Chess recordings (originally released on its Checker subsidiary), with a bonus disc of alternate takes and studio chatter. There’s just so much to savor on these discs – the dazzling guitar of eventual Cleveland resident Robert Lockwood Jr., the amazing piano of Otis Spann, the world’s greatest blues rhythm section – Willie Dixon on bass and Fred Below on drums… and, of course, Sonny Boy. His worst stuff sounds better than most of the blues recorded since the mid-‘60s. Sonny Boy always gets his due for his deeply soulful harp playing, but I keep coming back to his voice, which is unlike any other in blues. That little vibrato he’d throw in, especially on the lower notes, gets me every time. It’s like he’s mimicking the same guttural sound he gets out of his harp, which blew away the competition (except for Little Walter, of course) with no amplification at all: Help Me On one tune, he even mimics the howl of dogs on the hunt. And hard-core blues hounds always like to bring up the famous exchange with Leonard Chess on Little Village (hey, I’ve already shared it with you twice… check it here). Unfortunately, this set is long gone – but you can pick up most of the pieces as part of various Chess re-releases, like the Essential Sonny Boy Williamson (on mp3).

Five Guys Walk Into A Bar (Faces)… At RCR, we like our rock ‘n roll ragged but right, with no overdubs or apologies. And in this case, amazingly, it involves the same guy who spent much of the last decade snuggling up to the Great American Songbook. Hard to believe that Rod Stewart was once among the world’s pre-eminent rockers. And he had one hell of a band to keep him honest – Ian McLagan on keyboards, Ron Wood on guitar, Ronnie Lane on bass and Kenney Jones on drums. The beauty of “Five Guys” is that it goes far beyond a glorified collection of greatest hits. Sure, you get the best of their studio recordings, like Cindy Incidentally, Ooh La La and Miss Judy’s Farm. But this set is packed with live recordings, rehearsal tapes, BBC broadcasts and other oddities that showcase the Faces in all their drunken glory – just letting it rip like a red-hot bar band near the end of a long night. Most of the credit for “Five Guys” goes to McLagan, who selected the songs (some from his own archives) and sequenced them out of chronological order for a better listening experience. He also gets extra points for coming across in interviews as one of the coolest guys on the planet. And he’s a pretty damn good player to boot: Miss Judy’s Farm (live)/Faces

The Complete Stax-Volt Singles: 1959-1968… If Memphis soul is America’s greatest musical treasure, then this is Fort Knox. I borrowed this box set from a friend of mine, a fellow musician who played keyboards and sax. We spent hours studying these arrangements and even worked a few Stax-Volt nuggets into our band’s set list. Then he passed away suddenly at the young age of 44, which somehow gave greater meaning to a cardboard box and nine shiny discs that both of us already revered, in an unhealthy, music-nerd kind of way. So this one’s dedicated to J.D., who truly was the coolest guy on the planet. And getting back to the subject at hand, it’s hard to hold back the superlatives. Sure, you get the tunes that all of us know and love, like Green Onions and Soul Man and Try A Little Tenderness and Knock On Wood. But there’s also a lot of unsung soul on these discs – shockingly good material that remains almost completely overlooked, probably even by a few people who actually own this collection. I’ll leave you with samples of three hidden gems… and I’m proud to say J.D. and I came close to nailing the third one (R.I.P., John). I’m Glad To Do It/C.L. Blast Able Mable/Mable John I’m Going Home/Prince Conley

To be continued…

Sam and Dave on video… The first clip, from the 1967 Stax-Volt Revue in Europe, shows why none of the other performers wanted to follow Sam and Dave. By ’69, they’d gotten the whole band in on the act.

Ever find yourself on a long drive in the middle of the night, searching for those perfect songs to keep you awake but not wired?

There I was, drinking a mocha-infused Starbucks cocktail, almost enjoying the sound of my tires hitting the grooves on the right side of the road. I’d driven myself nuts listening to an endless be-bop solo by some journeyman jazzbo… I actually thought about staying on the shoulder and changing speeds to approximate a basic melody.

Then I decided to reset my iPod (without taking my eyes off the road, of course), and up pops a song by Ted Hawkins, from his final album, “The Next Hundred Years.” Slowly, I start moving into an actual lane on the highway. And I finally get the sense that this late-night drive might turn into something more profound, maybe even life-affirming.

Hawkins’ incredible life has been well-documented elsewhere, but I’ll give you the basics: Born in Biloxi, Mississippi, in 1936 – and raised under conditions that are best described as abject poverty… A troubled youth who was sent to reform school when he was 13, where he was encouraged to sing and perform by the superintendent’s wife and inspired when New Orleans piano legend Professor Longhair played for the kids… A drifter and heroin addict who spent a fair amount of time in prison… A street performer most of his life – and mostly in Venice Beach, California, where he probably spent many nights sleeping on the beach… A black man who seemed most comfortable singing his own brand of folk and country music… A rare talent who was criminally overlooked in his own country – even when his first album garnered a 5-star review in Rolling Stone – but gained fame and recognition in Europe… And finally, a major-label artist who passed away only a few months after he finished his debut album on Geffen Records.

“The Next Hundred Years” isn’t even widely viewed as his best album. Allmusic.com singles out “a plodding band unwisely inserted behind Hawkins that tends to distract rather than enhance his impassioned vocals and rich acoustic guitar strumming.” Apparently, Hawkins wasn’t too crazy about the album himself and felt his voice and guitar didn’t need any help at all, thank you. I find it to be a great listen – in a crisply produced, Chris Isaak sort of way. It captures Hawkins’ deeply soulful voice in a number of different settings, from a cappella gospel to honky tonk. And, like I said, it’s the perfect soundtrack for a long journey – searching yet dead certain… like the feeling of not knowing what’s around the corner, but welcoming every turn.

I’d also be hard-pressed to describe the band, including ace drummer Jim Keltner, as “plodding.” The guitar playing on the opening cut alone, by Chris Bruce, includes some of the tastiest fills I’ve heard outside of a Bakersfield studio. And Hawkins’ gritty voice – well-worn from years of exposure to windswept beaches – is a thing of beauty: Strange Conversation

As another critic pointed out, Hawkins’ lyrics are virtually metaphor-free. Case in point – the opening lines to The Good And The Bad: “Livin’ is good when you have someone to live with; laughter is bad when there’s no one there to share it with; talkin’ is bad if you’ve got no one to talk to; dyin’ is good when the one you love grow tired of you.” Although some may find these sentiments a little awkward and confessional, I admire the purity of expression in Hawkins’ songs. There’s something very powerful about simple words from an honest and innocent man, especially when he’s reaching out to a good woman… Green Eyed Girl

The song Biloxi seems to drift into jam-band territory – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because the form could use a swift kick in the ass. Remember Blind Melon’s left-field hit No Rain, that goofy little tune (with an even goofier video) that you couldn’t pry out of your head back in the ‘90s? In a more perfect world, that number would never see the light of day, and we’d still be talking about the summer we spent listening to Biloxi. Of course, most radio hits don’t end with hair-raising exhortations like this one… Biloxi

Radio also isn’t kind to pure, unbridled honky tonk, and there are two first-rate examples on “The Next Hundred Years.” A few posts back, we featured Hawkins’ brilliant version of a Webb Pierce hit from 1953, There Stands The Glass. A Hawkins original called Afraid also gets the full-band honky tonk treatment, with tasty pedal steel by Greg Leisz. I like how Hawkins kicks the band up a notch by yelling “play that thing!” Seems like he was born to sing this music. He certainly nails this material better than your standard Nashville country star. Afraid

Hawkins was the kind of artist who evoked strong feelings among his fans. Some were drawn in by the backstory of an artist who beat the odds – most notably, homelessness and heroin addiction. Others were under the spell of his highly personal songwriting and stunning voice. Many of them preferred Hawkins alone with his guitar, and I’m sure these fans felt a little cheated by “The Next Hundred Years”… until they got to the last number. It’s a cover of John Fogerty’s Long As I Can See The Light, and Hawkins delivers the opening by himself – without his guitar. Hard to imagine a better ending to a remarkable major-label debut. Long As I Can See The Light

With a positive review from Rolling Stone under his belt (“…a passionate collection of gospel, soul, country and blues songs about mortality, perseverance and transcendence…”) and gigs lined up in nice theaters, Hawkins finally tasted the success that had eluded him for so long. But it only lasted a brief moment in time. He died of a stroke on the first day of January, 1995 – only nine months after the release of “The Next Hundred Years.” The title now seems a little cruel, but I’m guessing his legacy will survive into the next millennium.

Ted Hawkins on video: Typically, the commentary you find on YouTube isn’t very useful. Here’s an exception, from “varuscelli.” I’ll just shut up and run it in its entirety:

“An abbreviated live video version of Ted Hawkins’ rendition of There Stands the Glass (from the ‘Amazing Grace’ video documentary, 1995).

“The ‘Amazing Grace’ video is apparently available only on VHS tape, and copies can be found in various place on the internet (for instance, eBay). Why the video has not been converted to a digital format for re-release/sale/distribution to the public is a mystery. The ‘Amazing Grace’ video, released the year of Ted Hawkins’ death (1995) features numerous songs by Hawkins interspersed with documentary-style commentary from Hawkins himself and a number of other musicians, family members, and music industry associates.

“Most of the song performances on the VHS tape are either partial songs (shortened for the documentary) or songs partially ‘interrupted’ by blended-in bits of commentary, but a handful of the songs are nearly uninterrupted — as with this shortened version of ‘There Stands the Glass.’

“There seems to be little video footage of Hawkins performing anywhere, which is a shame for both those who never saw him in person and those who would like to somehow see him again. The ‘Amazing Grace’ video is one of the few sources for a look at Hawkins performing both on stage and on the street (busker-style performances). The video is also full of commentary about Hawkins’ life, so is of interest to Hawkins fans on many levels. Running time for ‘Amazing Grace’ is just over 60 minutes, and true Hawkins fans will likely be so mesmerized by the video that they’ll have hard time taking their eyes from the screen while viewing it the first time.”

Our new Fly Fishing Correspondent, Kevin Swan, reels in some of his favorite Ry Cooder moments from the “pre-Buena Vista Social Club” era:

When Rolling Stone magazine published their “100 Greatest Guitarists” in 2003, there were few surprises in the top ten, with one exception: the enigmatic Ryland Peter Cooder. Hand-picked at age 18 to help solidify Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band, Cooder’s blues-based slide work was already highly prized in the Los Angeles studio scene. (Ry’s professional work ethic clashed with Beefheart’s unpredictable behavior, finally dissolving in chaos at a warm-up show for their scheduled appearance at 1967’s Monterey Pop Festival, when Beefheart refused to sing, then walked, or fell, off the back of the stage.) The final track of “Safe As Milk,” Autumn’s Child seems to mimic their artistic denouement: Cooder’s workmanlike guitar at odds with the throaty, possessed, anti-syncopation Beefheart, not to mention Dr. Stanley J. Hoffman’s wandering theremin: Autumn’s Child/Captain Beefheart with Ry Cooder

Through the late ‘60s Cooder kept a full session plate, working with and enhancing a range of artists: The Everly Brothers, Buffy St. Marie (!), The Monkees (!!), Pat Boone (!!!) and some incredible work with the Rolling Stones. (If you want to start a musicians’ fistfight, try, “Who played that amazing slide guitar on Let It Bleed?” I say an uncredited Cooder, even if the liner notes disagree.) Let It Bleed/The Rolling Stones (with Ry?)

In 1970 Cooder’s solo career began with his eponymous album. Hard to imagine now, but this type of raw, roots-based music was nearly unheard of 40 years ago; I doubt much made it out over the airwaves, beyond the odd college station. Sleepy John Estes’ Goin’ to Brownsville blends his mandolin, electric and slide guitars (although his vocals are, to me, still an “acquired taste”): Goin’ to Brownsville

In 1971, “Into the Purple Valley” crystallizes Cooder’s love of dust-bowl America, with Woody Guthrie, Leadbelly and Joseph Spence molded into a style evocative of a Depression-era hobo camp. With Hey Porter, the Johnny Cash train-track rhythm is deconstructed, Cooder lengthening and punctuating the time signature with his stuttering mandolin: Hey Porter

Slide guitar lends itself well to distinctive, signature styles. Duane Allman’s death in late 1971 took from us one of the best at that craft. His stinging bottleneck leads on “Blind Willie” McTell’s Statesboro Blues are among the most revered among slide-guitar aficionados. Cooder showcases his own unique touch on slide with another McTell song, Married Man’s a Fool. It’s from 1974′s “Paradise and Lunch,” which reveals even more of Cooder’s vast influences – from Burt Bacharach to Arthur Blake to Bobby Womack. (Tattler, a Washington Phillips reinvention, reveals a growing maturity and confidence and was covered by Linda Ronstadt on one of her mega-mega-selling albums.) Married Man’s a Fool

Just when the A&R guys thought they had singer-songwriter Cooder pegged as an American roots guy, 1976’s “Chicken Skin Music” threw a curve. Featuring Tex-Mex with Flaco Jimenez, then slack-key Hawaiian guitar with Gabby Pahinui, it was one of many of his collaborations that spanned musical genres. (When asked for definitive Cooder recordings, I usually respond, “Oh, get about 20 or so of his albums, that should do it.”) Chloe

The first of his albums to really take my breath away, though, was simply called “Jazz.” (A year earlier, my son was born; I named him Ryland. Django seemed a bit too much.) Drawing from early twentieth-century American jazz and blues, with traditional brass and wind backing, it re-visits Tin Pan Alley and the great bands and songwriters of the era. I’ve read that Cooder found the final recording too sterile and has distanced himself from it, but I find it unique in its scope. Although “Jazz” has been long out of print, you can find audio samples and a few copies for sale here.

Not fully satisfied with sessions, solo work and touring, Cooder scored dozens of movies, establishing an especially lasting bond with director Wim Wenders. For “Paris, Texas,” Cooder presents his doctoral dissertation on Blind Willie Johnson`s Dark Was the Night theme with spare, haunting precision. It is more than mere incidental music for the movie crowd, standing on its own with a rare depth of emotion: Paris, Texas

The Magic Band experience now far behind him, Cooder joined John Hiatt, Nick Lowe and Jim Keltner to form the band Little Village in 1992, named after a Sonny Boy Williamson studio rant. What started out as Hiatt’s backing band rather than a musical collective, it boasted Lowe on bass as well as great session drummer Keltner, a long-time Cooder collaborator. Ry must have been in heaven with Keltner at the kit: his style of drumming, sounding very loose but with a laser-like precision, is similar to Cooder’s playing – relaxed… with the confidence that comes from decades of hard work:

In the early ’90s Cooder presented two more interesting “world music” collaborations. V.M. Bhatt (with Ry’s son Joachim on percussion) plays the Hindustani slide guitar on the Grammy-winner “A Meeting By The River,” from 1993. A year later, Cooder played on and produced Ali Farka Toure’s “Talking Timbuktu,” a pan-African musical excursion that floats down the rivers of Mali and up the Mississippi. (Keltner once again held court on the drums.) Those musical roots run centuries and continents deep. They also remain alive and vibrant, with the help of singular artists like Ry Cooder.

R.I.P., Ali Farka Toure… This is amazing — look no further for the roots of John Lee Hooker.

Alright, guitar fans. I know all of you have your favorite examples of six-string nirvana – Derek & the Dominos, The Allman Brothers Band at Fillmore East, Stevie Ray Vaughan’s first album, Jeff Beck’s “Blow by Blow,” blah, blah, blah… But here’s one you’ve probably never heard.

The album: Chico Hamilton’s “The Dealer,” released on the Impulse! label in 1966. The guitarist: a 23-year-old Larry Coryell, making his recording debut. The bandleader: a legendary jazz drummer who started playing back in the late-‘30s in L.A. with his high school classmates Dexter Gordon, Charles Mingus and Illinois Jacquet.

Technically, “The Dealer” is a jazz album – but it stretches the meaning of that term at every turn. A couple of songs are in that riff-based, soul-jazz vein that the Blue Note label mined so well back in the Sixties. One is a fairly straight-ahead blues, at least the kind that you’d hear a classic organ combo play. Another takes a left turn into “psychedelic jazz” – because you couldn’t swing a dead, or stoned, cat back then without hitting a song aimed at that vast new audience known as the American hippie.

Rumor (aka Wikipedia) has it that Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor was a big fan of Coryell’s playing on this album. And to help prove the point, I’ve combined samples of solos from “The Dealer” and “Sticky Fingers.” First, you’ll hear Coryell launching into his break on For Mods Only (did they have to make the swinger reference so obvious?). Next, you’ll hear Taylor’s playing on the jazzy second half of Can’t You Hear Me Knocking. Given that Taylor appropriates big chunks of Coryell’s solo, I think it’s safe to say he spent a lot of time between ’66 and ’70 hooked on “The Dealer.” For Mods Only/Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

But the most startling moments on the album are right out of the gate, as Coryell makes a huge statement on the title cut. It’s the only jazz solo I’m aware of that sounds completely indebted to early rock ‘n roll – specifically, Chuck Berry. Coryell’s playing on this tune gets my attention every time it randomly shows up on my iPod. Clearly, he misspent much of his youth woodshedding along to rock and blues records… then he probably migrated to some Wes Montgomery, and maybe Django too. But all of these influences seem to come together organically – sorry, can’t think of a better adverb here – in Coryell’s loose and playful solo. The Dealer

As you can tell, Coryell also isn’t afraid to take his playing a little outside too. But he does it in a way that doesn’t sound the least bit calculated. I like how this next solo starts out fairly conventional and then devolves to the point where Coryell’s almost off the fretboard altogether. And Chico, another restless explorer, eggs him on with a few well-placed cracks of the snare. Now this is my idea of free jazz… Thoughts

Just when you think Coryell’s completely off the rails, he settles down and pulls off some pretty convincing blues licks. Although he’s credited with “writing” the next tune, it’s really not much of a composition – just a basic organ-combo workout that you could hear in countless inner-city clubs back in the Sixties (check this for more on the glory days of the B3). And he had the cojones to name the thing after himself, with a nod to another fearless wanderer… Larry of Arabia

If all this jaw-dropping guitar weren’t enough, the 1999 release of “The Dealer” on CD includes four bonus tracks from other sessions featuring the great Hungarian-born jazz guitarist Gabor Szabo. A master of the second-note drone and other exotic flourishes, Szabo was a big influence on Carlos Santana and many other Sixties rock guitarists (Santana used his original, Gypsy Queen, as the coda to Peter Green’s Black Magic Woman). Here’s Szabo strutting his stuff on El Toro… El Toro

Coryell went on to a successful career playing in a number of settings, including jazz-rock with his band The Eleventh House (can’t say I’m a fan; I prefer one of his more acoustic outings, which we touched on here). Approaching his 90^th birthday, Chico currently teaches at The New School for Jazz and Contemporary Music in New York City and occasionally tours with his band Euphoria. He played in Lena Horne’s band… scored music for film and TV… recorded with Rolling Stone Charlie Watts… mentored more contemporary rockers like former Spin Doctors guitarist Eric Schenkman and Blues Traveler John Popper… and, for my money, almost stole the show on the HBO documentary “The Jazz Baroness.”

I’m sure both men look back at “The Dealer” as a defining moment – a near-perfect start for Coryell, and a high point in Hamilton’s successful run as a bandleader in the Sixties, often with the popular Charles Lloyd on sax and Szabo on guitar.

We’ll close it out with Coryell playing some very Wes-like runs on this ballad, written by Chico and arranger Jimmy Cheatham… Baby, You Know

Chico in 2009, Live at Borders… When I’m 88, I’d like to have a steady gig at the local bookstore (but I’m assuming such establishments won’t exist when I’m that age).

Sunday morning – a time of worship. And for me, that worship involves a cup of joe, the Sunday Times, and a playlist of soul-soothing music. (Hey, I did 12 years of hard time at parochial schools, so you Bible-thumpers can just back off right now!)

Now this sacred songlist is about as close as I get to much-maligned labels like Easy Listening or New Age. But don’t expect Mantovani, Enya, Celtic Women or Windham Hill. I’m trying to wake up, not go back to sleep.

On the other hand, I rarely play gospel music on Sunday morning. That’s because the best gospel music, in terms of energy level, is right up there with Metallica or the Jonas Brothers. It’s really something that should be experienced in person – preferably in an inner-city, African-American, “make you sweat, sway and swoon” church (I’m still searching for the right one, honest… I swear). But as an appropriate soundtrack for Arts and Leisure, it just doesn’t fit the bill.

Then again, Sunday morning music should not be without a certain aura of spirituality, as subtle as it might be. I’m thinking Coltrane-like spirituality, as embodied by both John and Alice. Or even the worshipful sound of Bill Evans or Ahmad Jamal on piano. And let’s stick with instrumentals for now. I’m going after an ecumenical vibe. Lyrics, like the Good Book itself, are subject to different interpretations and endless debate.

Someone suggested I should mix it up with a little Sanskrit chanting. So I gave it a shot. But I guess I’m a little too American to take that leap. Repetition’s cool when you hear it in a song by John Lee Hooker or Lightnin’ Hopkins, but kind of annoying when delivered by your yoga teacher. Besides, chanting reminds me of the Hare Krishnas I spent much of the ‘70s avoiding at airports.

With that off my chest, I’ll also admit that one of my favorite Sunday-morning albums is a musical love letter to Eastern culture and religion. John McLaughlin gained fame and notoriety with his fiery electric guitar on Miles Davis’ landmark “Bitches Brew” album (definitely not Sunday morning music). But his solo album from 1970, “My Goals Beyond,” is something altogether different. The songs were assembled as a tribute to his Indian guru Sri Chinmoy, and McLaughlin plays stunning acoustic guitar throughout in settings that range from single-note meditations to big, droning passages with soprano sax, violin, tablas and drums. It may be a product of its time, but “My Goals Beyond” is a timeless piece of work with moments of great beauty – like this one from his original composition, Follow Your Heart: Follow Your Heart/John McLaughlin

If Alice Coltrane taught us anything, it’s that spiritual music isn’t necessarily “happy” music – it can be dark and dangerous but still uplifting. And few songs prove this point better than the next one. This groove sounds ancient to me, as old as any root that feeds the blues. The bass player is jazz legend Ron Carter – another Miles Davis alumnus – and he’s laying down one of the great bottom lines of all time. Then there’s Alice, playing an instrument normally associated with heavenly bliss. But this harp sounds as deep as the dark soil beneath us. It’s powerful stuff, haunting yet hopeful… from a master who left us in 2007. Given the huge shadow cast by her husband, she remains one of the jazz world’s most underrated artists. Huntington Ashram Monastery/Alice Coltrane

With due respect to Alice, let’s move on to a song by John Coltrane – and so many great ones to choose from. In an earlier post, I confessed that I tend to bail out of Coltrane’s more manic, atonal pieces. Some would argue that those performances are his crowning achievements. I prefer the more melodic vibe of his Atlantic recordings, as well as his earlier albums for the Impulse! label, like “Crescent” and “Coltrane.” Although a jazz standard, this next song – named after Coltrane’s first wife, Juanita Naima Grubb – seems to have the more universal appeal of a simple prayer. Naima/John Coltrane

Jazz producer Orrin Keepnews clearly knew good Sunday music when he heard it, which is why he booked New York City’s fabled Village Vanguard on Sunday, June 25, 1961, to record five separate performances by pianist Bill Evans and his trio. Two years prior, Evans played a key role in what many critics consider to be the greatest jazz album ever recorded, Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” (are you noticing a theme here?). Davis loved Evan’s quietly expressive playing, and the two shared an appreciation of the empty spaces in music that can create far more drama than a flurry of notes. You can hear the same, sparse delivery on “Sunday at the Village Vanguard,” as well as near-telepathic interplay among Evans and his band mates, bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian. Improvisational music of the highest order – appropriate for any day of the week: Gloria’s Step (Take 2)/Bill Evans Trio

I can’t resist including another Miles Davis favorite, pianist Ahmad Jamal… and instead of speaking for Miles again, I’ll just share the man’s own words (from “Miles: The Autobiography”): “I had gone to hear him once when I was out that way (Chicago, where the Pittsburgh native had a steady gig at the Pershing Hotel) and he knocked me out with his concept of space, his lightness of touch, his understatement, and the way he phrased notes and chords and passages… I loved his lyricism on piano, the way he played and the spacing he used in the ensemble voicing of his groups. I have always thought Ahmad Jamal was a great piano player who never got the recognition he deserved.” Jamal’s still performing and is scheduled to appear at the Newport Jazz Festival on August 7. I usually start my Sundays with this gorgeous cut from “The Awakening”: Patterns/Ahmad Jamal

Guitarist Larry Coryell is commonly associated with the band Eleventh House, which played that dreaded form of music called jazz fusion that many of us listened to back in the day. I can’t bear to hear five notes of the stuff today (which, of course, takes less than a millisecond for your typical jazz fusion band to play). But Coryell put out a fine acoustic/electric album in ’74, “The Restful Mind” – and it serves as a nice companion piece to McLaughlin’s “My Goal’s Beyond.” It has one of those “seagull and sunset” covers with classic Seventies typography… something you’d typically see on the front of a self-help book. But the music inside tells a different story, drawing from sources as diverse as French composer Maurice Ravel, American songwriter Jimmy Webb, and the Eastern-influenced band Oregon, which backs Coryell on “Mind.” Trust me, it all somehow works. Julie La Belle/Larry Coryell

The paper’s read (mostly skimmed)… coffee’s cold… time to walk the dog and pick up whatever bottles landed in my yard last night. But I’m still feeling the spirit as I listen to Astral Traveling, a cut from Pharoah Sanders’ 1971 release, “Thembi.” And although I’ve never experienced myself outside of this mortal coil, I get the sense that anything’s possible as I drift away on the heavenly sound of Pharoah’s soprano sax. My dog sits and stares, but with an ear cocked to the speaker… maybe she’s feeling the spirit too. Astral Traveling/Pharoah Sanders

All that talk about Miles and nothing to show for it. I’ll fix that. Miles Davis with John Coltrane – 4/2/59, CBS Studio 61, New York City. That sound, that look… Forget about his screwed-up personal life. The man clearly had tapped into something eternal.

Here’s an album that came and went a couple of years ago, but I keep getting sucked back into its strange vortex. It answers the question, what happens when a fairly twisted French dude records a loving tribute to his favorite American musical influences?

His name is Don Cavalli, and I’m surprised his latest release, “Cryland,” didn’t get more notice (although the British rock mag Mojo ranked it #12 of their 50 best albums of 2008, noting that “Cryland” is “appealing low-fi and iTunes eclectic… 21^st century psychedelic”). If you’re looking for brilliant lyrics or multiple layers of meaning, go somewhere else. This is all about deep, swampy grooves and gutbucket guitar played through overdriven tube amps. In other words, my kind of music… River/Don Cavalli

Cavalli’s casual approach to songwriting reminds me a lot of J.J. Cale – a true master at creating an overall mood and timeless vibe that transcends the material. J.J.’s done this better than anyone for about 50 years. And he’s still bringing the goods, with the possible exception of his recent collaboration with Eric Clapton (I’m not sure if Clapton has another good album in him). Here’s the intro to one of my favorite cuts from Cale’s 2004 release, “To Tulsa and Back”: New Lover/J.J. Cale

Cavalli’s another restless explorer of vintage sounds and riffs, with the same minimalist approach to guitar playing and songwriting as J.J., but maybe a little more edge and energy. Yeah, you’ll probably think you’ve heard some of these lines before: “Moon is a-risin’, sun is sinkin’ down low, wind is a-howlin’, been down lonesome with gloom.” But it’s hard to resist sturdy little tunes like the next one, especially if you share my weakness for rough and rootsy guitar: Vitamin A/Don Cavalli

The quirk factor also is fairly high on “Cryland.” And I guarantee you’ve never come across songs quite like New Hollywood Babylon and other oddball gems by Cavalli. It’s like someone stuffed all of these American influences – blues, country, rockabilly, cajun – into a Euro/Franco processing machine and hit the random switch. It’s nice to hear those influences subverted with such “aggress-shawn,” as he sings on one tune. I guess I’m also a sucker for strangled syntax, wha-wha guitars that seem to come out of nowhere, trashcan rhythms – not to mention whacked-out numbers like this one… Wonder Chairman/Don Cavalli

Make no mistake, this guy can play. But it’s hard to find much of substance written about Cavalli. From what little I’ve found on the Web, it appears he spent a number of years playing in rockabilly bands.

With “Cryland,” he seems to be moving away from more obvious tributes to his American idols, and closer toward establishing himself as a true original. His next album lands in 2011 – hopefully we’ll be around to share some of it with you.

Talk about creating a mood… I love this stark, ethereal video for River. I’m sure it involved a small budget, but a fair amount of choreography.