The 500 - #90 - Talking Book - Stevie Wonder

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #90

Album Title: Talking Book

Artist: Stevie Wonder

Genre: Progressive Soul, Funk, Soul, Jazz

Recorded: 4 Studios - New York, Hollywood, Los Angeles, London

Released: October, 1972

My age at release: 7

How familiar was I with it before this week: Fairly

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #112 - dropping 21 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Superstition

There are times when sticking to your principles can be a real pain. Case in point, Stevie Wonder recently announced that he and his band are going on tour, and not just any Stevie Wonder tour. He is celebrating the 50th anniversary of Songs in the Key of Life, with dates in New York, Chicago, and Detroit, a city a mere 200 km from my home. As of now, though, there is no Toronto date. No Montreal date. In fact, no Canadian date at all.

Detroit is tantalizingly close and, under normal circumstances, my friend Terry and I would be checking the calendar and figuring out dinner options in Motown. But these are not normal circumstances.

I've decided that until relations between Canada and the United States improve I'm going to avoid travelling to the U.S. and spending my money there. I don't pretend that missing a Stevie Wonder concert will register as the faintest blip on the American economy. My principled boycott won’t make anybody in Washington lose sleep. It's simply something I feel I need to do.

Let me be really clear: This isn't about Americans generally but their current federal government. Over the decades, I have met many wonderful Americans, some of whom I’m honoured to call friends. Additionally, I love visiting the United States where my godmother has lived for many years. I've crossed the border hundreds of times, attending concerts and sporting events, or just sightseeing and shopping. The accumulated memories of these visits have found their way into more than a few of these blog posts. Heck, my wife and I got married in New York City in 2006 and more than 40 members of our family and friends joined us, some extending their visit for a whole week.

Me and my lovely bride - August 18, 2006 in Battery Park, NYC.

My frustration is with the current American administration and, in particular, the way it has insulted and inflicted economic damage on my country, let alone the harm it has wreaked upon its own population.

Donald Trump has repeatedly floated the idea of Canada becoming the 51st state and mockingly referred to our former prime minister, Justin Trudeau, as a "governor." He has also transferred the slight to our current prime minister, Mark Carney.

More recently, he signed an executive order instructing the American government to refer to Lake Ontario as "Lake America." That one strikes particularly close to home. Ontario isn't merely the name of the province where I live. The name has Indigenous roots and was being used centuries before either Canada or the United States existed.

Lake Ontario Map from 1774, two years before U.S independence.

Then there's the ongoing argument over trade. Trump decided not to renew the USMCA in its current form and has criticized what it sees as shortcomings in the treaty.. How ironic considering the USMCA was negotiated during Trump's first administration and he hailed it as "the best agreement we've ever made."

Trump, flanked by Mexican President Enrique Peña Nieto
and Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, signing
the USMCA agreement in 2018.

Our current prime minister, Mark Carney, recently summed up the problem rather neatly when he said: "We've recognized from the start that America has changed. We recognized that sometimes its signature was written in pencil." When a deal negotiated and celebrated by the same president can suddenly become a deal his administration no longer wants to stand behind, Carney's pencil metaphor seems particularly apt.

So, for now, I'm staying on my side of Lake Ontario and remain hopeful about two things. The first is that relations between our countries thaw, that the anger and insults stop, and that good neighbourly relations are restored to the way they have been for centuries.

At the moment, I'm not terribly optimistic. Yet I wonder whether Stevie’s touring team may look at his schedule and think: “You know what? we haven't scheduled Toronto, Ottawa or Montreal.” Odds are Terry and his wife, Heather, would happily join Angela and me on a road trip if seeing Stevie was in the mix.

And with that, I’ll climb off my political soapbox to reflect on Stevie Wonder’s second record of 1972, Talking Book. The first was Music Of My Mind, which was released earlier that same year.

A second hit record in one calendar year sounds impressive enough. Then I realized that these were his 14th and 15th releases by an artist who was just 22 years old.

Twenty-Two!

When I was 22, I was still living in my parent’s basement. Sure, I was going to University and had a couple part-time jobs, but no one is talking about my creative output and groundbreaking innovations 50 years later…and I have the benefit of sight.

Me at 22, lifeguard by day, Pizza delivery driver by night.

We have actually been here before. Back in December, 2022, when I was still pushing my way through #285 on this decade-long journey through the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, I wrote about Music of My Mind. In that post, I spent some time on Stevie’s remarkable childhood and his emergence as the extravagantly talented “Little Stevie Wonder.” More importantly for what was coming next, I wrote about his discovery of the enormous TONTO synthesizer, created by Malcolm Cecil and Robert Margouleff. Stevie had become fascinated by synthesizers, and Cecil and Margouleff would work with him through some of the most creative years of his career.

Side Note: Margouleff is the guest on the accompanying episode of The 500 Podcast and, while promoting his autobiography, shares his experiences working with Stevie as well as a comprehensive look at that revolutionary technology. For music engineering or synthesizer nerds, it is a rewarding deep dive.

Another mind-blowing realization comes when one remembers that Wonder is not just a singer and piano player. On both of these 1972 records, he wrote the songs, produced the albums and played virtually every instrument himself. The music, the lyrics, the arrangements, the keyboards, the drums, the harmonica and ideas to create those strange new synthesizer sounds were pouring out of a kid.

Wonder in studio recording Talking Book.

There is something almost Mozart-like about him. Not because their processes were necessarily the same, but because I find the idea of all that music existing inside one person's head fascinating. Stevie couldn't sit at a piano with a blank piece of manuscript paper in front of him and casually scribble down an idea in the conventional way. He had to hear it, remember it, build it, play it and communicate it. Melody, harmony, rhythm, words and arrangement could all exist in his imagination before the rest of us ever got to hear them. Thus, the album before Talking Book was aptly named Music Of My Mind.

And, incredibly, Stevie was just getting warmed up.

Music of My Mind and Talking Book kicked off what is now widely referred to as Stevie Wonder's classic period, five critically acclaimed albums released in less than five years.

• Music of My Mind (1972) (#285 on The 500)
• Talking Book (1972) (#90 on The 500)
• Innervisions (1973) (#24 on The 500)
• Fulfillingness' First Finale (1974) (Grammy Award for Album of the year
• Songs in the Key of Life (1976) (#57 on The 500) and Grammy Award for Album of the year
  

That's not merely a good stretch. That's an athlete entering the zone and then somehow staying there for five seasons. Imagine a ballplayer hitting .350, winning the batting title, coming back the next year and doing it again, then looking around and deciding he might as well steal some bases, hit a bunch of home runs and win the league MVP a few times while he's at it. Stevie was on one of those runs, like Gretzky, Woods, Jordan, Williams, Ali or Brady, whose greatness literally became the expectation.

Originally, this was going to be my angle for this blog. I was going to investigate other artists who had enjoyed an incredible run of consecutive releases. In fact, I’ve been researching and mulling it over for a few weeks. Then Stevie announced his tour, without a Canadian date, and my frustration sent me in a different direction. Oh well. I’ll save that topic for either Songs In The Key Of Life or Innervisions, in 2027, which should coincide nicely with the start of the next U.S. presidential primary season. By then, perhaps I’ll have two things to look forward to: Another great Stevie Wonder album to write about and the possibility of a rapprochement in Canada-U.S. relations. And renewed trips across the border.

Help me out if you can?

What is your favourite four- or five-album consecutive run by a musician or band?
It doesn’t need to be critically acclaimed, just your own personal list.

The 500 - #95 - Bitches Brew - Miles Davis

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #95

Album Title: Bitches Brew

Artist: Miles Davis

Genre: Jazz Fusion, Psychedelic Jazz, Avant-Garde. Jazz Rock

Recorded: 52 Street Studios, Manhattan, New York, USA

Released: March, 1970

My age at release: Four

How familiar was I with it before this week: Somewhat

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #87 - rising Eight spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Pharoah's Dance

I took music all the way through high school and played with the school band every year, except one. Looking back, I probably didn't practise as much as I should have, and I certainly didn't take every lesson as seriously as I wish I had.

Still, I was a competent enough saxophone player to earn passing grades and survive recitals, concerts and exams. I also have music teacher Mr. Gwyn Beynon to thank for not booting me from class or band when my teen-age brain seemed hell bent on giving him a good reason to do so on a seemingly monthly basis.

Gwyn Beynon is now the Conductor Emeritus with the London, 
Ontario based Encore Concert Band. 

If I could go back, though, I wouldn't just spend more time in the practice room, I'd spend more time paying attention in music theory classes.

At the time, theory class felt a lot like math class. Which makes sense, music is math. It is patterns, relationships and structures. Unfortunately, teen-age me had already decided that I wasn't really a "math person," so I approached music theory with the same lack of enthusiasm that I brought to algebra.

Today, as a middle school teacher, that's exactly the mindset I try to instill in my students. I task them to see themselves as mathematicians. Understanding mathematical concepts isn't about being born with some special gift. It's about focus, time, practise and, most importantly, believing you are capable of learning difficult things.

I vaguely remember the lessons on the church modes from my Grade 13 year at Beal Secondary School. The church modes are seven musical scales derived from the notes of a major scale. Instead of always starting and ending on the first note of the scale, each mode begins on a different note, creating its own unique sound and mood. Long before they became important in jazz, these modes were used in church music during the Middle Ages, which is where they get their name. They are Ionian (major), Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian (natural minor) and Locrian, most easily remembered by the mnemonic I Don't Play Loud Music At Lunch.

I remember trying to memorize them. I remember writing them out. I remember learning just enough about them in order to pass a quiz and then...promptly forgetting them. At the time, with a head full of teen-age social anxieties and unrequited crushes, I simply didn't think they mattered.

Now, decades later, I realize those modes are essential in understanding jazz, especially the music of Miles Davis. I know enough to appreciate that fact, but I also believe that if I were to take music theory again, perhaps in retirement, a much deeper level of understanding awaits.

Which brings me to Bitches Brew.

Released in 1970, Bitches Brew arrived at a time when Miles Davis was determined to push jazz in a new direction. Rock music was dominating popular culture. Younger listeners were embracing electric guitars, amplified instruments, and more experimental forms of entertainment. Davis had already begun moving away from traditional jazz structures with albums such as In a Silent Way. However, it was Bitches Brew that blew the doors off.

Album cover for In A Silent Way, a CD I purchased during my
"I want to understand jazz" phase in the late 80s.

The recording sessions were unlike most jazz albums that had come before. Rather than bringing fully written compositions into the studio, Davis often arrived with sketches, bass lines and, of course, modal frameworks paired with simple instructions. He assembled an astonishing cast of musicians, including Wayne Shorter, Joe Zawinul, Chick Corea, John McLaughlin, Larry Young, Jack DeJohnette, Dave Holland, and Bennie Maupin. What emerged was part jazz, part rock and part improvisation.

Musicians credited on Bitches Brew.

For listeners expecting catchy melodies and familiar chord progressions, Bitches Brew can be a challenging experience. Many of the pieces stretch beyond 20 minutes. The music often feels less like a collection of songs and more like a landscape. Instead of moving quickly through traditional chord changes, the musicians frequently explored modes, textures, rhythms and moods for extended periods of time.

That is where those old theory lessons come back to haunt me.

While listening to tracks, such as  Pharaoh's Dance, Bitches Brew, Spanish Key and Miles Runs the Voodoo Down,  I can detect a different musical language by recognizing some of the vocabulary. I understand enough to know that the modal ideas I encountered in high school are playing an important role. And I am also aware there's a deeper conversation happening just beyond my knowledge.

Miles Davis, in his trademark trumpet pose, recording Bitches Brew.

Maybe that's one reason why this album remains fascinating more than 50 years after its release. Like a difficult book or a demanding film, it reveals a little more at each re-listen.

Fortunately, I'll be visiting friends at their cottage in a week. Their teenage son, Mitchell, is a talented guitarist who recently took up jazz. Perhaps I can pick his brain for the insights that eluded me in those music classes 40-plus years ago.

The 500 - #102 - Fresh Cream - Cream

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #102

Album Title: Fresh Cream

Artist: Cream

Genre: Blues Rock, Psychedelic Rock

Recorded: Rayrik and Ryemuse Studios, London, England

Released: December, 1966

My age at release: 1

How familiar was I with it before this week: Several songs

Is it on the 2020 list? No

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: I'm So Glad

Like any profession, members in a rock band arrive preloaded with their own set of stereotypes and jokes. They are usually a mix of funny, unfair, exaggerated...and, sometimes, painfully accurate.

The lead singer is the egotistical prima-donna, primping before a show.

Q: How many lead singers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 

A: One -- he just holds it up and expects the world to revolve around him. 

The lead guitarist? Talented, brilliant, and a seemingly effortless player; but not built for much else. 

Q: What do you call a guitarist without a girlfriend? 

A: Homeless. 

The bassist? Steady, dependable, but terribly dull. He is stereotyped as the human equivalent of beige wallpaper.

Q: What do bass players use for birth control?

A: Their personalities.

And the drummer? Legendarily depicted as the wild man in the band. They are loud, unpredictable and, much like their Muppet counterpart "Animal", possibly feral. 

Animal, the drummer, from The Muppet Show band, 
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem.

In fact, Animal, the drummer in the fictional band Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem on The Muppet Show (1976-1981), was conceived as a mash-up of three of Rock music's most notorious madmen, musicians as famous for their chaos as their percussive chops. Animal was a creation of Jim Henson’s Muppet team. He was designed by Michael K. Frith and brought to unhinged life by Frank Oz. Henson's team have confirmed that he was a composite character based on drummers Keith Moon (The Who), John Bonham (Led Zeppelin) and Ginger Baker (Cream) -- perhaps leading to the decision to give him red hair. Collectively, this trio of musicians have 15 records on The 500 list, but their off-stage mayhem is equally legendary.  I touched on Moon's antics when I wrote about The Who's My Generation, (#237) in November, 2023, and there will be plenty of time to discuss Bonham in future posts -- four Zeppelin albums are in the top 100.

This week, let's focus on Peter Edward Baker, who embraced the sobriquet "Ginger" because his fiery red hair matched his equally combustible temperament. Born in South London in 1939, Ginger’s life was shaped early by loss. His father, a lance corporal in the British Army, was killed in World War II when Ginger was just four. School never quite held him. He was restless, often in trouble and drawn more to rhythm than routine. A brief start on the trumpet gave way to drums, and by his mid-teens he was sitting in with bands around London, soaking up the influence of jazz greats.

A young Baker pounding the skins with London Jazz bands.

By the early 1960s, Baker had carved out a reputation on the British jazz and R&B circuit, where he met bassist Jack Bruce when the two of them played in the Graham Bond Organisation in 1963. Their partnership was electric and volatile, marked by arguments, onstage clashes, and at least one story involving a smashed instrument. It was a relationship that seemed destined to implode, yet in 1966 Baker insisted on bringing Bruce into a new band he was forming with Eric Clapton. That band was Cream.

Cream were (l-r) Bruce, Baker and Clapton. 

The group's debut record, Fresh Cream, lands at #102 on The 500, and I have already written about their psychedelic breakthrough -- Disraeli Gears (#114) and their final full studio release, Wheels of Fire (#205). Three albums in just over two years, all canonized. Not bad for a band that could barely stand to be in the same room together.

Cream, performing.

Cream channeled musical chemistry, but it was a volatile concoction. Baker's explosive drumming style and combustible temperament spilled into every corner of the band’s existence. Fights were frequent, especially with Jack Bruce. Arguments boiled over into physical confrontations that went well beyond artistic disagreement. This was open warfare and Bruce even reported keeping a knife in his pocket in preparation for Baker's drumstick assaults.

Baker in studio.

And then there were the excesses, especially the drug use. Cream burned bright and fast because it almost had to. Sustaining their level of intensity, musically and personally, was never a possibility. All three continued their music futures, with Clapton and Baker reuniting briefly in the group Blind Faith. Bruce and Clapton ultimately continued on more conventional paths, working with a variety of collaborative and solo projects over the next 50 years. Baker, however, marched to a different beat, a continent away. For him, the next move wasn’t to form another band or clean up his act. It was to leave. At the start of the 1970s, restless, strung out on heroin, and still chasing something he couldn’t quite name, he walked into a dealership, bought a Range Rover, and decided to drive to Africa. That's right, the lunatic didn't want to fly...he wanted to drive.

Baker and his Range Rover, en route to Nigeria.

What followed was less a road trip and more an act of obsession, chalking up thousands of miles from London, across Europe, through the Mediterranean, and then deep into North Africa, navigating the Sahara with fuel cans strapped to the vehicle and wrecked cars littering the roadside like warnings. He was arrested along the way, nearly stranded more than once, and kept going.

Baker fixing his Range Rover in the Sahara.

It was a pilgrimage. Baker was chasing rhythm at its source, drawn by the music of Fela Kuti, whose Afrobeat fused jazz, funk and West African traditions into something new. When Baker finally arrived in Lagos, he didn’t just visit. He stayed, built a studio, and immersed himself in the music, proving once again that for him, chaos wasn’t a detour. It was the path. I recommend highly, their collaborative record from 1970. Recorded in Abbey Road Studios in July, 1971, Live!, is an intoxicating blend of afrobeat, fused with American funk and jazz. Baker only appears on two tracks, but both are funky, 13 minute jams.

To appreciate more fully the madness, the genius, and the fury of Ginger Baker, it’s also worth spending 90 minutes with the 2012 documentary Beware of Mr. Baker. Directed by Jay Bulger, the film is a clear‑eyed portrait of a musician whose brilliance is inseparable from his volatility.

Poster for documentary, Beware Of Mr. Baker.

The documentary traces Baker’s life from his early days in London jazz clubs through Cream, Africa, and into his later years living in semi‑isolation on a fortified compound in South Africa. The title is taken from a rusting sign near the compound’s front gate.

Rusted sign outside Baker's compound in South Africa.

The sign reveals much about the unorthodox Mr. Baker: the innovation, the influence, the addiction, the broken relationships, the financial ruin, and the stubborn refusal to soften with age.

Interviews with Clapton, Bruce and others circle around the same conclusion. Baker may have been one of the most important drummers in rock history, but he was also a most difficult man to be around. The film doesn’t just tell you that. It shows you in the first few minutes when Baker attacks Bulger, the film-maker, striking him with a cane hard enough to leave his victim bloodied after taking issue over how the film was being made. See the clip here.

Baker, in a screen capture from Beware Of Mr. Baker,
striking the documentarian, Bulger.

Which brings us back to where we started. Those stereotypes exist for a reason: The guitarist, lost in his own world. The bassist holding it all together in the background. And the drummer...the animal at the back of the stage.

Because in the end, Ginger Baker didn’t just play like the wild man behind the kit. He lived like him, too.

The 500 - #103 - Giant Steps - John Coltrane

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #103

Album Title: Giant Steps

Artist: John Coltrane

Genre: Jazz, Post Bop, Hard Bop

Recorded: Atlantic Studios, New York City, New York

Released: February, 1960

My age at release: Not born

How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #232, dropping 128 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Giant Steps

In the late ’80s, I started buying jazz CDs. This was not because I understood jazz but because I thought I should. It sounded like the kind of music that I wanted my persona to project; urbane, intelligent, sophisticated and tasteful. I think I also wanted to prod myself into believing that I was actually growing up despite working part-time jobs at restaurants, arenas and pools while still mucking about after my first degree, not entirely convinced adulthood had arrived.

Me in the late 80s, making a pizza at my restaurant gig,
wearing my lifeguard hoodie from my summer job with
the Public Utilities Commission.

Much like people who buy Tolstoy’s War and Peace or Joyce’s Ulysses from The Folio Society, these touchstones of cultural refinement were meant to be displayed, even if not fully understood or, in some cases, even absorbed. (Full disclosure: I also went through a Folio Society phase a few years later. To my credit, I chose books I wanted to read, or had already read. Certainly not Ulysses, which remains miles beyond my comprehension).

The Folio Society is known for its handsome, prestige editions of classic books.

I have written before about my first jazz purchase being Kind of Blue (#12 on The 500 List). Before Google searches and Ai prompts came along to help people 'cosplay' as music intellectuals, I learned about the legendary 1959 Miles Davis record through word of mouth. Someone, likely older and authoritative, had claimed it would be their “deserted island record.”

For those unfamiliar with the term “deserted island record” (sometimes expanded to a short list of records reminiscent of BBC’s celebrity Desert Island Discs radio program) selecting your favourites is a fun way of fantasizing life as a desert island castaway. What albums would you choose to keep you company, provided, of course, there was a power source?

Giant Steps, John Coltrane's fourth studio release and first for Atlantic Records was recorded shortly after he finished working with Miles Davis on Kind of Blue. Coltrane’s record is regarded as one of the most influential jazz albums of all time. Despite sounding chaotic to the untrained ear, his chord progressions are highly structured and mathematical. This was groundbreaking for several reasons, especially because:

• It introduced what musicians now call Coltrane Changes, a harmonic system that cycles through three distant key centers (B, G, and E♭ major), each a major third apart. This was unusual because most jazz harmony at the time moved more predictably through closely related keys.
• It demanded much of the musicians playing because of the rapid harmonic movement. The chords change quickly, sometimes every two beats. For improvisers, this meant having to constantly “re-map” the tonal center in real time, a mentally and physically demanding task for even an expert player.
• To navigate these changes, Coltrane developed his Sheets Of Sound style, a continuous cascade of notes pouring out of his saxophone like a waterfall or rushing current. Even though it sounds wild, he hits the important notes of each ever changing chord as they pass by.

Whereas Kind of Blue became the most accessible and best selling jazz record of all time (five million copies in the U.S. alone), Giant Steps became a rite of passage for serious jazz musicians and fans. The title track alone has become something of a legend. Among expert saxophonists, it is more a test than a song. Its rapid sequence of shifting keys, cycling through distant tonal centres, creates what is often described as a harmonic obstacle course. There are 26 chord changes packed into 16 bars, often played at a blistering tempo which, by most accounts, makes it one of the most difficult pieces in the jazz repertoire. However, despite the chaos, it remains an engaging and enjoyable listen.

The first section of Giant Steps charted for alto saxophone.

I suppose, going back to my earlier example: If Giant Steps is James Joyce’s impenetrable Ulysses, then Kind of Blue would be F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. The first is a dense and demanding novel that requires effort, patience, and a certain level of fluency before it begins to reveal itself. It can feel forbidding at first, as though designed to test your intelligence.

The other, by contrast, is beautifully controlled and deceptively simple. Kind of Blue, like The Great Gatsby, feels accessible from the very beginning. You can enter it without preparation. In fact, it is still on many high school reading lists. But that ease is misleading. Between the pages there is a quiet sophistication, a structure and intention that only becomes clear the more time spend with it. Not coincidentally, it is widely owned and widely loved. People return to Gatsby, recommend it, and, in many cases, claim to know its subtleties before they fully understand the underlying themes. Which describes me perfectly when I purchased Kind of Blue and read Gatsby back in the '80s. I am still discovering things about both.

Granted, Giant Steps would make a terrific deserted island record. To steal a phrase from poet Walt Whitman,  the music "contains multitudes" of themes. You could spend years finding new pathways through its harmonic maze, fresh interpretations of how the pieces fit together. The challenge for the listener is to stretch  the mind; there is always more to learn. It would also have looked pretty impressive on my shelf when I was 23, alongside  a Folio Society copy of Ulysses.