by Roni Sarig
Till the Band Comes in (Philips [UK], 1970); a slight return to former styles.
The Moviegoer (CBS, 1972); the first of a series of forgettable records, with country pop and bland standards.
Any Day Now (CBS, 1973); see above.
We Had It All (CBS, 1974); see above.
Climate of Hunter (Virgin, 1984); a surprisingly up-to-date and challenging return from self-imposed reclusion.
Fire Escape in the Sky: The Godlike Genius of Scott Walker (100, 1981); compiled by Walker devotee, musician Julian Cope.
No Regrets: The Best of Scott Walker and the Walker Brothers (Fontana [UK], 1992); the only collection to include solo and Walker Brothers material together.
It’s Raining Today (Razor & Tie, 1996); an excellent collection with key tracks culled from the first five albums, it’s the only domestically available collection of Walker’s early solo work.
Tilt (Fontana [UK], 1995; Drag City, 1997); critically adored recent return, available domestically on influential ‘90s indie label Drag City.
SERGE GAINSBOURG
Beck [from Interview magazine, April 1997]:
I’ve always been interested in entertainers in other countries who aren’t acknowledged here – for example, the Frank Sinatra of Chile. So I had that kind of appreciation for Serge... [T]he content of his songs was pretty risque – even for France. Which is what also endeared him to me. He expressed himself with such a mixture of disgust and passion. The combination is very tantalizing, and very ‘90s... [Also], I’m rhythmically oriented, and a lot of his stuff was rhythmically based. He was very interested in African beats and Brazilian songs. He worked in many genres, and I do the same thing. He looked at music as a palette.
Starting in the late ‘50s and continuing for decades, Serge Gainsbourg wrote and performed music – from cool jazz to slick disco, from mannered cha-cha to stylish mod beats – with lyrics that shocked, angered, and thrilled audiences in his native France. With his impeccably crafted songs, full of cynicism as well as humor – Gainsbourg chronicled the alienation of a modern rebel while mixing in enough sex, violence, and social commentary to keep the public captivated. “For me provocation is oxygen,” Serge Gainsbourg once said. For over three decades, Gainsbourg so effectively played the role of bad boy provocateur that by the time he died in 1991 he was regarded as a national treasure.
Gainsbourg fancied himself an heir to young and restless French poets Baudelaire and Rimbaud – a Dylan of the Left Bank who played the part of both ugly duckling sex symbol and intellectual pop star. At the same time, he was also the archetypal sleazy lounge singer, the stereotypical French smoothie, the aging swinger who beds young models. The renewed interest in all sounds deemed kitschy (cocktail music, easy listening), has led to new notice of Gainsbourg in the English-speaking world. Indeed, his mix of retro sounds and thoroughly ‘90s polemics makes him a perfect antihero for the current revivals.
Beyond the trends, though, Gainsbourg was in essence a terrific songwriter whose ability to jump between various pop styles makes him an inspiration to modern-day eclectics. His growing influence in U.S. and British pop is implicit in the number of artists covering his material: Luscious Jackson [a version of Gainsbourg’s Soixante-neuf année érotique (“69 Erotic Year”)], Luna’s Dean Wareham and Stereo lab’s Leticia Sandier (Bonnie and Clyde), Free Kitten (featuring members of Pavement and Sonic Youth), and Mick Harvey of Nick Cave’s Bad Seeds (two whole albums of Gainsbourg material translated into English).
His image as an angry outsider in France was not something Serge Gainsbourg needed to cultivate; it came naturally to him. He was born Lucien Ginzburg in 1928, the son of Jewish immigrants from Russia. As a teen during World War II, his family lived perilously under the Nazi puppet government in northern France and was forced to wear yellow stars, until they escaped to Images in the south. Though he returned to Paris after the war, Gainsbourg remained bitter about his experience, and disillusioned toward his fellow Frenchmen. He developed an arrogance and sense of fatalism about the world, and a keen desire to rebel against the repression he’d experienced under the Nazis. As a young man, he found kindred spirits in the bohemian scene of Monometer, where he played piano in cabarets and studied painting.
By the late ‘50s, Gainsbourg had given up painting and began to earn attention for his songs, which he and others started performing in Paris clubs. He changed his name officially when he began his recording career in 1958 with the song The Ticket Puncher, a jazz-based character study of the mundane workaday world. Other songs, such as Intoxicated Man, Ce mortel ennui (“This Mortal Boredom”), and Indifférent, furthered Gainsbourg’s image as a chronicler of bohemian angst and alienation and he became an antihero in an otherwise genteel French music world. Though his first album, Du chant à la une!, failed to gain much notice in mainstream French pop – which at the time was dominated by the “ye-ye” sound that borrowed heavily from American and British pop – Gainsbourg had become a favorite in the hip world of Paris’ Left Bank.
Dave Dederer, Presidents of the United States of America
My wife spent a lot of time in Europe as a kid... , and she bought this set of stuff he did mostly in the ‘50s and early ‘60s, jazz trio with him singing. It’s the most beautifully recorded music. Luscious, just so creamy, it makes you want to climb inside it. That’s inspiring when it’s time to record and you’re trying to think of sounds and ways to invite the listener in.
In the early ‘60s, Gainsbourg was reaching his mid-30s and was in search of a mainstream breakthrough. While remaining essentially a composer of jazz-pop, Gainsbourg began incorporating into his music the stylish sounds of the Caribbean and South America in songs like Cha cha cha du loup, Mambo miam miam, Couleur café. While his music became much more beat-oriented (1964’s Gainsbourg percussions), his world view remained dark (End of the Rope) and he again failed to connect with pop audiences.
By the late ‘60s, the French public seemed ready for something a bit more risque, and Gainsbourg was happy to comply. Though an innocent 18-year-old singer named France Gall had scored a hit with Gainsbourg’s song Les sucettes (“The Lollipops”), it wasn’t until Gainsbourg recorded his own version that the tune’s dirty jokes became apparent. In no time, Gainsbourg went from cult favorite to bad boy of the French pop charts.
By then, Gainsbourg’s music had shifted once again. Long enchanted by American popular culture, Gainsbourg now immersed himself in a mod-pop style, akin to Burt Bacharach and Lee Hazelwood / Nancy Sinatra songs, with colorful ditties such as the pop-art inspired Comic Strip (complete with sung sound effects – ”Sh-bam! Pow! Whizz!”) and the hipster society anthem, Qui est in Qui est out (“Who’s in Who’s out”). And having learned a valuable lesson from his success with Les Sucettes, Gainsbourg set about creating his most provocative – and by no coincidence, his most successful – work.
Exploiting and exaggerating his outsiderness, Gainsbourg became Gainsbarre, a bad-ass rock star with an unkempt but fashionable junkie/lecher look, sneering derision at the world. He wrote songs about the fast life – Ford Mustang, Harley David Son of a Bitch, and gangster pop classic Bonnie and Clyde – and ducted with sexy younger women with whom he also had love affairs. Most notable was Brigit Bardot, who recorded two albums with Gainsbourg in 1967 and ‘68.
Dean Wareham, Luna:
Laetitia [Sadier of Stereolab] picked that song, [Bonnie and Clyde, to record as a duet] and it came out great. I always thought French music was just bad, but he had incredible production and the music was very sexy and really out there. The closest thing we have to that is Lee Hazelwood, another one of my heroes.
A second young starlet, English actress Jane Birkin, was Gainsbourg’s partner on his best-known songs. In 1969, their hit Soixante neuf année erotique played the current year for all its sexual potential and caused quite a stir in France. The follow-up, though, became an international incident. Je t’aime... Moi non plus (“I Love You... Neither Do I”), with its s
uggestive lyrics (“I go and I come, inside you”) and Birkin’s orgasmic moans, was banned throughout Europe at the urging of the Vatican. Nevertheless, the song was Gainsbourg’s biggest hit; it turned Gainsbourg into a superstar at home, and even made the U.S. charts.
Steve Shelley, Sonic Youth:
There was this real innocence for Sonic Youth, or for myself, in discovering him. I compare it to first hearing about rock ‘n’ roll... At this point, we’re so post-everything that I think we can really appreciate the way he put together all those cultures and sounds and words and feelings. It’s much the same way that we appreciate Beck right now. I’m not into him for the kitsch value. What interests me is that he made such amazing sounds, and that takes me back to dealing with things simply on an aural level, [from Interview magazine, April 1997]
With stardom opening up endless possibilities, Gainsbourg busied himself in the ‘70s with all sorts of creative pursuits: He composed soundtracks, acted in cheesy Italian films, directed his own movie, and even wrote a novel. Though he recorded less, his music was still controversial. He attempted a concept album with 1971’s Histoire de mélodie Nelson, a cult favorite, and took his jabs at government (Rock around the Bunker) and oil companies (Torry Canyon). He continued to exploit the latest sounds; in 1976 he traveled to Jamaica to record reggae with Sly Dunbar and Robbie Shakespeare, and three years later he released Aux armes etcetera with Bob Marley’s Wailers as his backing group. The song, which amounted to the French national anthem “La Marseillaise” set to a reggae beat, was viewed as disrespectful and created an outrage in France.
Even into his late fifties, Gainsbourg continued to shock with songs – set to disco, funk, even hip-hop music – such as Love on the Beat, about male hustlers, and 1985’s Lemon Incest, for which he made a video in bed with his daughter Charlotte Gainsbourg (now an actress). In the late ‘80s, Gainsbourg made news again when he told Whitney Houston, live on a French television talk show, “I want to fuck you.” When Gainsbourg died of a heart attack on March 2, 1991, the entire nation of France mourned the loss of their most distinctive voice. Only posthumously would his influence truly blossom in the U.S., on the fringes of an exotica revival that he clearly transcends.
DISCOGRAPHY
Du chant a la une! (Philips [France], 1958).
Jeunes femmes et vieux messieurs (Philips [Fr], 1959).
L’étonnant Serge Gainsbourg (Philips [France], 1961).
Confidential (Philips [France], 1964); a notable album from his jazz period.
Gainsbourg percussions (Philips [France], 1964); the album signaling his move toward Latin-flavored music.
Bardot & S. Gainsbourg / Bonnie & Clyde (Philips [France], 1968); the first collaboration with Brigit Bardot, featuring their duet Bonnie & Clyde.
Initials B.B. (Philips [France], 1968); another album with Bardot.
Jane Birkin & Serge Gainsbourg (Philips [France], 1969); a collaboration with Birkin, featuring Soixante neuf année érotique and Les sucettes.
(w/ Jane Birkin) Je t’aime (Beautiful Love) (Fontana, 1969).
Histoire de mélodie Nelson (Philips [France], 1971); a concept album recorded with Birkin.
Rock around the Bunker (Philips [France], 1975); an album of politically provocative songs.
L’homme à tête de chou (Philips [France], 1976); a reggae album recorded in Jamaica.
Love on the Beat (Philips [France], 1984); an electro-dance record.
You’re under Arrest (Philips [France], 1987); Gainsbourg’s final album, featuring the rapped title track.
Jazz dans le Ravin (Mercury, 1996); a collection of songs from Gainsbourg’s jazz period in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, released domestically in the U.S.
Comic Strip (Mercury, 1996); a collection of late ‘60s pop songs, including his best-known songs Je t’aime... moi non plus and Soixante neuf année érotique, available in the U.S.
Couleur café (Mercury, 1996); a collection of Gainsbourg’s Latin-flavored songs from the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, released domestically in the U.S.
TRIBUTE: Mick Harvey, Intoxicated Man (Mute, 1995); first of two albums featuring Gainsbourg songs, translated into English and interpreted by Harvey, former Birthday Party member and currently in Nick Cave’s Bad Seeds.
TRIBUTE: Mick Harvey, Pink Elephants (Mute, 1997); the second of Harvey’s excellent Gainsbourg collections.
TRIBUTE: Great Jewish Music: Serge Gainsbourg (Tzadik, 1997); part of John Zorn’s series highlighting Jewish musical figures, this features Faith No More’s Mike Patton, Cibo Matto, Blonde Redhead, Kramer, and others in Zorn’s “downtown” music circle.
BIG STAR
Steve Wynn, solo / Dream Syndicate:
[Big Star] influenced me so much that when I was 21 I took a Greyhound bus from Los Angeles to Memphis just on the chance I might meet Alex Chilton. I spent a week buying him beer and cigarettes, trying to ask him about his music. But he was so bitter about music, it kind of bummed me out. I thought I would meet the voice behind those records, but the person was so different. Now I know how unfair that is, but I was young and idealistic. He was very cordial, and put me up a couple nights. But he was just so bitter about music, which is not what you hear in Big Star.
In rock, Big Star was a freak of nature. While most British bands of the ‘60s tried to sound like they were from Memphis, here was a group of white kids from Memphis (in the ‘70s) who couldn’t get enough of Beatles harmonies and Kinks riffs. Their records mixed Brit-pop with middle-of-the-road production, bits of garage and glam rock, and an inescapable Memphis country-soul sound that came across as unfashionable at the time and helped to keep them obscure.
By the end of the ‘70s, though, Big Star’s take on rock would serve as a blueprint for the “power pop” that connects ‘80s bands like the dBs to current acts, from Matthew Sweet to Fountains of Wayne. And with the emergence of postmodern rock, Big Star’s technique of constructing new songs out of various classic pop building blocks made them natural reference points for young musical historians. Their quirky blend of styles, along with undeniably catchy tunes, would make them heroes to scores of later groups interested in pursuing pop in all its shades: R.E.M. and the Dream Syndicate have sighted them as a big influence; the Replacements, the Jayhawks, and Letters to Cleo have all named songs after the band or its members; the Bangles, Afghan Whigs, and tons of other groups have covered Big Star songs; while Teenage Fanclub and the Posies have outright copied their sound.
Back in 1971, Memphis singer/guitarist Chris Bell, bassist Andy Hummel, and drummer Jody Stephens were playing Badfinger and Led Zeppelin covers in a band called Ice Water. Though all three were heavily into British pop music, they couldn’t escape the influence of local Memphis soul groups like the Bar-Kays. Alex Chilton, Bell’s childhood friend who had recently moved back to Memphis after spending some time in the New York folk scene, attended an early Ice Water gig. Chilton, who as the sixteen-year-old lead singer for the Box Tops had scored a number one hit with 1967’s “The Letter,” was something of a local celebrity, and already a music biz veteran at twenty-one. In search of a new project, Chilton accepted Bell’s invitation to join his band. Renaming themselves after a supermarket chain, Big Star was born.
Around the same time, local producer John Fry had decided to start a record label based around his recording studio, Ardent, and was looking for acts. Ardent had already become a hangout for the small community of mostly white, mostly suburban Anglophiles on the fringes of the Memphis music scene, and Big Star quickly emerged as the most promising of the pack. Without bothering to do gigs or coalesce as a band, Big Star began recording.
What they created in 1972, a debut record they optimistically called #1 Record, was the product of collaboration between two very talented songwriters, Chilton and Bell. The tracks combined elements of all the music that had touched them: the light blues rock of Feel, Byrds’ jangle of In the Street, the folk picking of Thirteen, country boogie of My Life Is Right, the soft
rock of Try Again, tied together with M.O.R. arrangements and well-crafted Beatlesque harmonies. #1 Record was hardly revolutionary, but the skill with which it navigated styles made it an early model for future underground pop packrats like the Pooh Sticks and Papas Fritas. And the songs, taken at face value, could be quite effective emotionally.
Immediately after the debut’s release, cracks began to appear in the band. While Bell wanted to keep the band a studio project, Chilton wanted to tour. In addition, Bell was battling depression, which only worsened when he began to sense that Chilton was emerging as the dominant figure in the band. “With the first album we got a lot of great press, most of which was focused on Alex, and I think Chris thought he was going to have to live in the shadow of this famous band member,” drummer Stephens says. “That first record was primarily the result of Chris’s vision of what the band should sound like, and somebody else was getting the spotlight for it.” As Big Star began to make their follow-up to #1 Record, Chris Bell quit the band.
Eric Matthews:
Big Star directed me to a new sound and style. There was something incredibly haunting and strange to it. It’s strange to discover music that you’re just not aware of that has existed for so long. It’s really the new wave of the time.
While Bell returned for a brief period to work with Chilton on new songs, they soon divided the material they’d written and split up for good (some of the final Bell/Chilton material, including, Back of a Car, eventually showed up on Big Star’s second record). As a three-piece, Hummel and Stephens’ creative impart increased, but Chilton was clearly the main force in the band. Radio City, their 1964 follow-up to #1 Record, is predictably more raw than the debut, and also more consistently Beatlesque, with songs like Way out West and She’s a Mover harking back to ‘60s Brit pop. In 1974, though, this sound was almost a decade out of fashion, and it would be a number of years before “power pop” (which would adopt Radio City’s September Girls as its Rosetta stone) brought these sounds back.
