Steve Winwood

Steve Winwood Island

No serious admirer of Traffic ever thought that when Stevie Winwood got round to making a solo album it would be anything less than top notch. And so it has proved to be.

Let's have a look at the pedigree first. At 16 this talented wunderkid was penning such anthems as Gimme Some Loving for the English R & B outfit bearing Spencer Davis's moniker. When the blues boom died he moved into the then current vogue for supergroups: Blind Faith, with members of another supergroup; and Traffic, an attempt to replace the full-frontal lobotomy approach of the previous group with a jazzier more melodic attitude. Throughout that group's stormy, tempestuous seminal period it produced some of the most entrancing music to issue from England—No Face, No Name, No Number; Paper Sun and Hole in My Shoe, but hassles—both internal cerebral and internal groupwise—meant that they only ever attained that standard of excellence on two albums: II and Low Spark. However, the potential was always there, even if the various group members could never quite be bothered to realise it. Traffic finally ruptured for good nearly three years ago, and Winwood disappeared.

And this album—which I have no qualification whatsoever in labelling as the finest of the year—is eloquent testimony that whatever it is that he has been doing, he certainly hasn't been wasting time.

For those who remember the earlier Traffic this is going to come as something of a surprise. The pretty melodies of that material have been replaced with complex shifting rhythms more akin to some of the superior disco circulating recently. But it's a rhythm that appeals to both the cerebrum and the feet, so that you can dance and you may even find yourself listening to it.

It's not all toe-tangling though: the final track on side one Midland Maniac should be enough to convince rock and rollers who thought the genre had died off years ago that Winwood has retained his melodic sensibility as well as his multi-instrumental, writing and singing ability. On other tracks he's joined by famed earbiter Reebop, and session stalwarts Andy Newmark and Willie Weeks Capaldi.

Studio expertise is also to the fore. On some cuts Winwood has tracked his bass three or four times, giving the sound added resonance. Also he takes all the vocals, and adds some new twists to his already extensive keyboards vocabulary. The most startling improvement, however, has been in the guitar playing field, from the more tranquil passages to the more specifically hard rock lines, his figures are a never ending source of delight.

That's about it, really. I could sit here and waste time raving—objectivity fled about the third time Steve Winwood wound itself around the spindle—and there are only two months to go, musically in the year, so it's hard to see anything topping this. In the meantime as far as albums for '77 are concerned, here it is.

—George Ballast

Live At Hollywood Bowl

The Beatles Capitol

Be careful with this record. Because they're the Beatles, don't expect too much from them. For you must remember several things. The Beatles audience affected everything simply because they weren't there to listen to the music. So it dindn't matter how poor the sound was. The Beatles couldn't hear what they were playing due to the screaming and the complete lack of mixers. Don't think that this LP ias is like any other live LP - it's in an area of its own. Now we have mixers. Now people listen to the music, and don't scream through the whole concert. I've heard bootlegs better than this, but this is how The Beatles' concerts were so why should they falsify the sound?

When you listen to this you understand why The Beatles decided to stop touring' The concerts were holding their talents up. They were being wasted playing the same 28 minutes of music night after night. They didn't have to worry about the quality of the music at their concerts. Their playing, in comparison with the studio LPs of their time, is extremely simple. The imperfectior of the live singing of Paul and John are an improvement. Harrison doesn't extend himself on his solos. (Not that he ever did much, anyway, - his lead breaks were predictable and only a bar long). McCartney keeps a prodding bass, while Ringo just does his job. Rarely id John's rhythm guitar exceptional. But why should they extend themselves in this situation?

The opener, Twist and Shout, is musically one of the best but the audience are still fresh and manage to drown it out easily. Having only 28 minutes on stage the Beatles tried to cram as many songs in as possible. Rarely did they sing more than one verse and a chorus of each song.; Twist and Shout is the only example of this at the Hollywood Bowl. She's a Woman is noteable for Paul's singing which is bought out as his vocals are damn near drowned out. . Dizzy Miss Lizzy is a good 50s rocker—the first song to take over the crowd. The guitar work, though good, is unimaginative for Harrison.

The drumming, though, is poor - too much cymbal work. Strangely, the song gets boring - it could do with the Twist and Shout treatment. Ticket to Ride, one of their most overrated songs, is very badly recorded. As always, it drags. Can't Buy Me Love lacks body. It is done as if they want to get it ober with. On Things We Said Today John and Paul's harmonies make up for the twangy acoustic backing. Due to the supposed lack of audience participation it is extremely echo-ey. John sings Roll Over Beethoven. The rhythm and lead guitars stand out, as does the backing; The recording of I Should Have Known Better is so perfect I think it's the studio version rehashed; Boys is sung by Ringo who ruins it with a trashy cymbal sound. Paul plays bass very well - a reapeating, fast and corny arpeggio. The bass also features on a Hard Day's Night, but the other instruments sound terrible.

Paul sounds as if he has got a cold. Ringo drums maniacally on Help, a good effort at making a rocker out of what is really a slow soft song.

All My Loving has some curious fast half-beat strumming by John; George, also, improves on She Loves You, and provides string lead work. Finally they provide a good rocker. Long Tall Sally.

George Martin has hardly touched the tapes, and was right in doing so. - he has kept the atmospher of the concert. For they put this record out—not as music, but as a collector's item. If you want to feel the atmosphere of a Beatles concert listen to this. Nowadays live albums are as good to listen to as studio albums. However, this one is not! The sound is raw and unbalanced and the screaming keeps on going through the songs.

The Beatles, as they showed later, are capable of so much more. An interesting thing is the inane conversation they entered into with the audience. EG: 'For our next song we'll do a tune from one of our films - the black and white one. We've made two films - one black and one white and the other coloured. Are You Ready Paul?

C.R. Bourke.

Lani Hall

Sweet Bird A & M

This one might go unnoticed in the rush. Just possibly.

And to all intents and purposes, it probably will, which is a damn shame because, as far as interpretive singers go, she's the best I've heard. The problems facing interpretive singers are legion - the most obvious being, naturally, that the original is usually superior. The dilemna is compounded in this funny world of ours by the further problem of the "all-important" delineation between what is hip, and what is not. So while Linda Ronstandt is couth, Olivia Newton-John misses the boat. As an added snarl-up, male vocalists in the genre, because of their own idiosyncratic approaches, are generally able to transform lyric from another writer to such an extent that it is almost a different song.

So while we have an endless sucession of female vocalists homogenous to the point of blandness, every now and again along comes nirvana, the "cosmic blast", whatever. What you thought Linda could have been after Heart Like A Wheel, except that she persistently underachieved However, all is not gloom to the horizon—and Sweet Bird should be ample to dispel doubts. Truly, she makes Ms Ronstadt look like the dumpling next door.

Part of this may be attributable to the fact that she has several plusses going for her from the start—not the least of which was that she was, for some years, one of the two lead singers with [unclear: Ser] Mendes and his band of soft-core Brazilian jazzers. Secondly, she's married to Herb Alpert, who just happens to own the record label she records for. Third she's pretty; not just beautiful, pretty. And, fourthly. Sweet Bird—her seconc solo effort—is a long way distant from the usual hastily assembled mishmash that comprises the bulk of most albums devoted to material from alien pens. On top of which, she sings it all rather well—give and take a couple of lapses where she sidles into shrillness attempting to hit the higher notes—and with writers of the calibre she's assembled here, that just may not be the easiest thing in the solar system to do.

Those writers include Stephen Sondheim, Barry Manilow, Andy Pratt and Joni Mitchell, from whose bittersweet paean the album takes its title. Even (shudder) Marvin Hamlisch, whose acerbic "At The Ballet" provides a striking contrast to open side two. Basically, a tale about a little girl and her parent's marital hassles—coupled with the ballet fantasies she enacts inside her own head. Without being maudlin, strong enough to make any WASP/RC, or combination thereof, gag over their cornflakes, which is probably where they will hear it. Which is another pity. Being tagged as middle of the road, somewhat limits an artist's audience, and this is one lady who deserves something better.

Sondheim's "Send in the Clowns" provides an unexpected introduction. Taken at a much faster tempo than Judy Collins the initial effect of the jerkily, sprung rhythm is incredulity, bordering on embarrassment. You know how songs affect you sometimes. However, that soon passes and as one listens the subtleties of Stanley Clarke's bass, pinioned by crisp drumming, work their way into consciousness. Howling synthesisers embellish the lyric, and one is left feeling that it is decidedly not as gauche an attempt as it first seemed.

Andy Pratt's song from Resolution is slower, but it is a nice song, treated sympathetically. It moves into the thematic core of the album: a brace of songs. Too Many Mornings, and Misty Blue (Mister Blue)—during which hubby takes a trumpet solo. Mellow, easy-listening, if you're looking for cranial abrasion you won't find it here—something I never thought I'd find myself listening to and enjoying, but there you are.

Abrasion abounds at the ballet: second thoughts, and the aspect is a lot scarier. Music hath charms........

The remainder of the side is sufficiently varied to ensure the interest never flags—the arrangements are impeccable, though sometimes veering towards the grandiose—leaving this reviewer with a warm pleasant feeling. Pleasant's probably the applicable word, really. Nice one.

—Patrick O'Dea.

Great Guitars

Byrd/Kessel/Ellis Interfusion

The Great Guitars of Charlie Byrd, Barney Kessel, and Herb Ellis should need little introduction to Wellington jazz listerners; this is the second album released under their collective name and they have twice toured here giving formidable performances to appreciative audiences. But listening to this record I am convinced that as performers they excel in the flesh rather than on vinyl

That is not to say this record is not good; it is that and maybe even a bit better. Yet the rapport which these three highly individual jazz guitarists have when they play together lacks that certain edge of tension and excitement which they build up when playing to an audience.

This set is structured in a pattern similar to their concert programme, featuring the trio, with solo and duo pieces interspersed and the occasional assistance of rhythm team Wayne Phillips, drums, and Joe Byrd on bass; climaxing with a medley in tribute to the three great jazz guitar stylists of all time—Django Reinhardt, Wes Montgomery and Charlie Christian. Most of the pieces are jazz standards from the thirties and forties: Lover, Makin' Whoopee. Body and Soul, Cow Cow Boogie, Nuages, Flying Home; but in the hands and under the fingers of Byrd, Kessel and Ellis they are all transformed into valid jazz interpretations. Their picking really gets hot on Lover, Outer Drive, and Flying Home, especially on the latter which takes the record out in style. The quieter ballads such as Body and Soul and Amparo, are delicately presented, giving us an appreciated contrast and variety to three fine guitarists hitting it out together is trying to pick out their individual styles, being able to recognise who the soloist is and who plays what licks. Charlie Byrd favours the classic guitar style, playing with precision and grace on an accoustic model. Barney Kessel is a largely self-taught musician and plays in a very individual, tense and jagged way, emphasising the chordal structure of a song and the possibilities of harmonization or disharmony using related pattern. Herb Ellis is a classic blues riffer, striking the melodies with a jovial assurance; a very clean electric player who can really hit hard when he wants to.

This is an expertly balanced performance, well recorded, and one which I wouldn't hesitate to recommend to any guitar fanatic.

—Tim Nees.