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48 JULY 2015 JB Hi-Fi
ed Zeppelin Presence
inishing off the ‘reissues with lotsa goodies’ rollout
rom Zep’s official catalogue (wait until they hit the live
ootlegs!) includes this seldom-referenced offering
rom 1976. Up there with all the blistering Viking blood-
creams of Immigrant Song is the opener, Achilles’
ast Stand, a crushing drum and wailing guitar 10min+
oundtrack to imaginary battles between Gods and
monsters, creation and destruction, light and shade
– it’s no wonder Jimmy Page claims it as his favourite Zep song. The effortless
jigger-jagger ‘co-cay-co-cay-cocaaiiine’ groove of For Your Life leads into the sharp
bright pulse of Royal Orleans. Then there’s Nobody’s Fault But Mine. No Led Zep
fan worth their salt cannot but help air-guitar and recite all lyrics verbatim the
very second this hits the ear. At 2min 47sec, the track mesmerisingly ups the
ante further by planting a harped boot on your throat, reminding you just how
engulfing and fully aware of their projected energy this outfit possessed when
‘on fire’. The extras on this release aren’t exactly as ‘Oh My God!’ as the others,
but the trick here is to realise that the oft-unsung sum of this album’s original
parts are integral (and nicely remastered, to be sure) to the hallowed legacy of
Zeppelin’s tenacity to ‘explore’. Chris Murray
Duran Duran
Rio (Remastered)
Hey, Boy Band, yes you! Stop
and listen. Before you were born,
Simon Le Bon and co. were touring
the globe, bedding supermodels
and doing more drugs than
Hunter S. Thompson; all the while
delivering #1 tunes that didn’t rely
on 'interpretive dance moves' to
fill stadiums. They made video
clips that were banned, made their
own fashion, lived like artists in
exotic locations and led bohemian,
aristocratic and eccentric lives like
a very select few on the planet.
They still look good, have hair, and
can put on a live show that requires
nothing other than amps. This is
where it all began – Rio. It’s cheesy
and awesome, and still guaranteed
to have someone within your vicinity
immediately dancing with wild
abandon. You need it. Chris Murray
Various Artists
Dylan, Cash and The
Nashville Cats
This is a companion release for
an exhibition (of the same name)
currently showing at Nashville’s
Country Music Hall of Fame &
Museum. Both explore the many
artists who travelled to Music
City to record in the ’60s & ’70s,
following the lead of Bob Dylan,
the popular lure TV’s The Johnny
Cash Show, and the rich talent
pool of session musicians known
as The Nashville Cats. Artists
like George Harrison, Neil Young,
Leonard Cohen and many others
were unable to resist a taste of
the Nashville Sound – the era
became a time of historic
musical crossover, of pop, rock
and folk, with the country music
of Nashville.
Denise Hylands
visit REVIEWS MUSIC
With the reissue of Joy Division's albums, Graham
Reid goes back inside a deep moment in rock.
By most measures, Joy Division out of
Salford in Manchester in the late '70s
were a rare band. In the hands of producer
Martin Hannett their spare and cavernous
sound was somewhere between post-
punk and (whisper this low) ever-present
disco with the emphasis on Stephen
Morris' powerful driving beat, the bass of
Peter Hook mixed high like a lead guitar,
and the swirling melodic keyboards and nagging guitar of
Bernard Sumner. And out front was singer and lyricist Ian
Curtis who would commit suicide on May 18, 1980 . . .
just before the band was to leave for their first American tour.
An early death is a big deal in rock
culture. Like some prehistoric insect
embalmed in amber, the dead never age.
They remain forever young, beautiful and
full of promise. Today Curtis would be
almost 60 if he'd lived, but when you listen
to his lyrics – and factor in mental instability
and epilepsy – he was never going to make
old bones. A poetic spirit impelled him, so
comparisons with the suicided Sylvia Plath (dead at 30, face down
in the gas oven) and the like are not far from the mark.
But in rock culture what made Curtis unique was he, like Jim
Morrison, sang in a baritone which conveyed an emotional weight
never available to the likes of Michael Jackson or Prince. He
sounded serious. And he was.
Ironically then, his bandmates didn't
quite realise what was going on inside
Curtis' disturbed head until after he died.
Only then did they look at his lyrics:
few colours other than grey; images
of isolation and endings; questions
throughout (“Where will it end,” in Day of
the Lords, “Why is the bedroom so cold”
on Love Will Tear Us Apart are typical) and
everywhere there was introspection and bleakness.
Perhaps because Curtis dealt with universal themes of
emotional distance and self-doubt – as well as the music being
not time-locked as overtly “post-punk” – Joy Division will
always find a new audience. And their time has come again with
the reissue of their two Hannett-produced albums Unknown
Pleasures and Closer (on vinyl); their essential Still collection of
unreleased studio material and the live recording of their final
show at Birmingham University a fortnight before Curtis' suicide
(double vinyl); and the Substance collection of B-sides and such
on CD and double vinyl. That final concert on Stil l is hard to
listen to, knowing what would follow soon after: On Disorder he
screams, “I've got the spirit, but lose the feeling feeling feeling
feeling”. That final “feeling” sounding like
a note of defeat.
And on the thrilling Transmission, the
last time he would ever sing it, we can hear
it isn't about dance, but
he screams over and over “dance, dance,
dance to the radio” you know this is not
the dance of life. It's the dance of that ever-
present other. And he knew it.
For more from Graham Reid visit