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Long After Dark
The essence of rock ‘n’ roll is the two-and-a-half to three minute song, short and sweet and to the point. . . a nugget of musical perfection that always leaves the listener wanting more. This was true back in the days of Top 40 radio, and it still is now.
I have always followed this tenet, and still do, mostly. But the truth of it is, there is a part of me which has always favored the longer song, what used to be called an album cut. This part of me believes that when it comes to rock ‘n’ roll songs, longer is almost always better. Ideas are better fleshed out, good musicians can really stretch, and when it is done right, the longer cut can transport the listener, if he/she is in the proper frame of mind to be transported.
There are examples of songs than benefited from editing. One I can think of is the early Fleetwood Mac classic “Oh Well”. On the Then Play On LP, the song is arranged so the familiar part, the three or so minutes of straight up guitar by Peter Green and the rocking rhythm by (Mick) Fleetwood (and John) Mac(Vie), is up front, followed by seven or eight minutes of extremely laid back instrumental noodling. The edited version of this, with just the first part, is definitely better. A similar instance is “Love Is Like Oxygen” by Sweet. A rocking beginning, with a classic guitar riff, but on the LP (Level Headed), there is a long instrumental break in the middle that, to me, takes away from the song. The “AM edit”, as we called it back then – the song was edited down to fit the AM radio Top 40 format – was perfect. There are several other examples, to be sure. But sometimes it seemed as if the editing of the song was done carelessly or haphazardly, by someone who did not know or care about how a song is supposed to flow musically.
Longer versions of the songs, typically from an LP, were usually preferable to me because at least I knew this version was probably how the artist originally intended the song be heard. Beyond that, long versions were good for listening to in the car, and/or for reflective moments alone, with the headphones on. I had a pair of Koss™ Pro-4AAAs back then that wrapped entirely around my head. “Cans”, we called them. Head-fi. They had padded earpieces that covered each ear entirely. I much prefer them to the earbud things popular now, the ones you jam into your ear canal. My Koss cans had a 12 foot extension cable on them, and I liked to put on an LP and then lay down in the middle of my bedroom floor, lights off and with my eyes closed, listening to tunes. Looong tunes, preferably.
One of the better long songs ever is “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” by the Allman Brothers, the live version, off of the Fillmore East LP. This version of the song clocks in at around 13 minutes. An instrumental written by guitarist Dickey Betts (and famously named after a woman on a Civil War-era tombstone in a Macon, GA cemetery), it is probably the Allmans playing at their best, at least in their original configuration. The interplay between Betts’ and Duane Allman’s lead guitars and also between the twin drummers, the time changes, the switch from an elegy to an up tempo beat and back to an elegy again, the uniquely Allman mix of rock, blues, and some jazz elements. . . it is all here, perfectly conceived and executed, and at a perfect length.
I have known this song almost from the womb, it seems like; but I really fell under its spell one night back when I was around 19 or 20 years old. I was in college then, working after school at a law firm, and living alone in a small, dumpy apartment in the Gaylynn, about fifty yards from the emergency room entrance to St. Elizabeth. One night, I was waiting for some friends to come by the apartment and pick me up, to go out partying, probably. I had got ready early and had a little time to kill before they would arrive.
I almost always had music playing back then, wherever I was. In the apartment, I had a pretty nice stereo setup, separate Onkyo receiver and amp,turntable, cassette deck, a graphic equalizer, and big Pioneer speakers. All my LPs, roughly 800-1000 of them at that time, were arranged alphabetically on some bookshelves I had specially made to hold them. That night, while waiting for my friends, I decided I wanted to listen to something that would not involve much interactive thought on my part, and that preferably was long enough that I would not have to get up and change what was on the turntable anytime soon. So I ended up pulling the Fillmore East LP down off of the shelf, almost as an afterthought, and I put it on the turntable, and turned up the volume. Then I switched off the lamps, opened a Miller Lite, and sat down in an easy chair in the corner of my small-ish living room. The only light in the apartment was ambient, from the streetlights outside. I could see the tiny red and green lights blinking on my stereo across the room. As “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” started playing, I could hear sirens outside, wailing in the background, headed for the hospital down the street. For some reason, all these stimuli combined to put me into a sort of trance-like state, and as the song played, I found I was listening to it like I’d never listened to it before. I was totally into it, down inside the grooves in the vinyl, almost; and it was the most incredible feeling. It gave me shivers, actually. I wish I could adequately describe it, but no way.
After a time the song finished up, and soon after my friends showed up, and we went along on our merry way. The ecstatic buzz I had from listening to “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” faded, but I never really got over it. I kept on playing that song, all through the years and up to now; probably several hundred times, total. And the cool thing is, every time I played it, if I concentrated a bit I was able recreate that feeling, about 75% of it, anyway. I still can. Given my circumstances now, and the fact that just about everything now is entirely different from then, I am amazed that I can still experience that sensation, the same one from back when I was young and free and, it seems to me, an entirely different person altogether than I am today.
I am grateful for this. Is it any wonder that I still prefer longer songs, and that “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” is still one my favorite ones?
*****
The heyday for long-ish versions of songs was probably the 1970s and early 1980s. Here is a list of some of my favorite "long songs", off of the top of my head, as of today; keeping in mind that, a.) the list changes and, b.) I have forgot some I really like, no doubt.
The essence of rock ‘n’ roll is the two-and-a-half to three minute song, short and sweet and to the point. . . a nugget of musical perfection that always leaves the listener wanting more. This was true back in the days of Top 40 radio, and it still is now.
I have always followed this tenet, and still do, mostly. But the truth of it is, there is a part of me which has always favored the longer song, what used to be called an album cut. This part of me believes that when it comes to rock ‘n’ roll songs, longer is almost always better. Ideas are better fleshed out, good musicians can really stretch, and when it is done right, the longer cut can transport the listener, if he/she is in the proper frame of mind to be transported.
There are examples of songs than benefited from editing. One I can think of is the early Fleetwood Mac classic “Oh Well”. On the Then Play On LP, the song is arranged so the familiar part, the three or so minutes of straight up guitar by Peter Green and the rocking rhythm by (Mick) Fleetwood (and John) Mac(Vie), is up front, followed by seven or eight minutes of extremely laid back instrumental noodling. The edited version of this, with just the first part, is definitely better. A similar instance is “Love Is Like Oxygen” by Sweet. A rocking beginning, with a classic guitar riff, but on the LP (Level Headed), there is a long instrumental break in the middle that, to me, takes away from the song. The “AM edit”, as we called it back then – the song was edited down to fit the AM radio Top 40 format – was perfect. There are several other examples, to be sure. But sometimes it seemed as if the editing of the song was done carelessly or haphazardly, by someone who did not know or care about how a song is supposed to flow musically.
Longer versions of the songs, typically from an LP, were usually preferable to me because at least I knew this version was probably how the artist originally intended the song be heard. Beyond that, long versions were good for listening to in the car, and/or for reflective moments alone, with the headphones on. I had a pair of Koss™ Pro-4AAAs back then that wrapped entirely around my head. “Cans”, we called them. Head-fi. They had padded earpieces that covered each ear entirely. I much prefer them to the earbud things popular now, the ones you jam into your ear canal. My Koss cans had a 12 foot extension cable on them, and I liked to put on an LP and then lay down in the middle of my bedroom floor, lights off and with my eyes closed, listening to tunes. Looong tunes, preferably.
One of the better long songs ever is “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” by the Allman Brothers, the live version, off of the Fillmore East LP. This version of the song clocks in at around 13 minutes. An instrumental written by guitarist Dickey Betts (and famously named after a woman on a Civil War-era tombstone in a Macon, GA cemetery), it is probably the Allmans playing at their best, at least in their original configuration. The interplay between Betts’ and Duane Allman’s lead guitars and also between the twin drummers, the time changes, the switch from an elegy to an up tempo beat and back to an elegy again, the uniquely Allman mix of rock, blues, and some jazz elements. . . it is all here, perfectly conceived and executed, and at a perfect length.
I have known this song almost from the womb, it seems like; but I really fell under its spell one night back when I was around 19 or 20 years old. I was in college then, working after school at a law firm, and living alone in a small, dumpy apartment in the Gaylynn, about fifty yards from the emergency room entrance to St. Elizabeth. One night, I was waiting for some friends to come by the apartment and pick me up, to go out partying, probably. I had got ready early and had a little time to kill before they would arrive.
I almost always had music playing back then, wherever I was. In the apartment, I had a pretty nice stereo setup, separate Onkyo receiver and amp,turntable, cassette deck, a graphic equalizer, and big Pioneer speakers. All my LPs, roughly 800-1000 of them at that time, were arranged alphabetically on some bookshelves I had specially made to hold them. That night, while waiting for my friends, I decided I wanted to listen to something that would not involve much interactive thought on my part, and that preferably was long enough that I would not have to get up and change what was on the turntable anytime soon. So I ended up pulling the Fillmore East LP down off of the shelf, almost as an afterthought, and I put it on the turntable, and turned up the volume. Then I switched off the lamps, opened a Miller Lite, and sat down in an easy chair in the corner of my small-ish living room. The only light in the apartment was ambient, from the streetlights outside. I could see the tiny red and green lights blinking on my stereo across the room. As “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” started playing, I could hear sirens outside, wailing in the background, headed for the hospital down the street. For some reason, all these stimuli combined to put me into a sort of trance-like state, and as the song played, I found I was listening to it like I’d never listened to it before. I was totally into it, down inside the grooves in the vinyl, almost; and it was the most incredible feeling. It gave me shivers, actually. I wish I could adequately describe it, but no way.
After a time the song finished up, and soon after my friends showed up, and we went along on our merry way. The ecstatic buzz I had from listening to “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” faded, but I never really got over it. I kept on playing that song, all through the years and up to now; probably several hundred times, total. And the cool thing is, every time I played it, if I concentrated a bit I was able recreate that feeling, about 75% of it, anyway. I still can. Given my circumstances now, and the fact that just about everything now is entirely different from then, I am amazed that I can still experience that sensation, the same one from back when I was young and free and, it seems to me, an entirely different person altogether than I am today.
I am grateful for this. Is it any wonder that I still prefer longer songs, and that “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” is still one my favorite ones?
*****
The heyday for long-ish versions of songs was probably the 1970s and early 1980s. Here is a list of some of my favorite "long songs", off of the top of my head, as of today; keeping in mind that, a.) the list changes and, b.) I have forgot some I really like, no doubt.
01.) In Memory of Elizabeth Reed - Allman Brothers(13:11)
02.) Down By The River - Neil Young(9:16)
03.) Like An Inca - Neil Young(9:46)
04.) The Core - Eric Clapton(8:45)
05.) Low Spark Of High-Heeled Boys - Traffic(11:39)
06.) Maggot Brain - Funkadelic(10:20)
07.) Touch Me I'm Going To Scream, Part 2 - My Morning Jacket(8:12)
08.) Slippin' Into Darkness - War(7:00)
09.) TB Sheets - Van Morrison(9:35)
10.) Tupelo Honey - Van Morrison(6:53)
11.) Flash Light - Parliament(10:45)
12.) Marquee Moon - Television(10:40)
13.) Too Rolling Stoned - Robin Trower(7:33)
14.) Straight Up And Down - Brian Jonestown Massacre(11:00)
15.) Poppy - Frank Marino & Mahogany Rush(19:74)*****
1 comment:
Not sure if it counts as a long version by your definition, but the unedited version of "Miracles" is a favorite of mine.
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