CREAM - WHEELS OF FIRE

The most important thing to note about this copy of Wheels of Fire, Cream’s double LP from 1968, is that it sounds impeccable.  Many of these records I have stolen feature a conspicuous bed of clicks and pops underneath the music.  Many of them don’t even play without frequent skipping.  This Cream record, on the other hand, sounds beautiful and looks pristine.  I imagine it being played only once before I got my hands on it.  That’s probably because this record is terrible.

Wheels of Fire is split into two records: one featuring studio recordings, and one featuring material the band performed at a series of shows in San Francsico.  The second LP is entirely unlistenable, so let’s get through that as quickly as possible.  The two sides contain four songs total.  The first is the band’s version of Robert Johnson’s “Crossroads,” which if you’ve ever turned on a radio, you’ve heard at some point (although I’ve always heard it just attributed to Clapton).  Normal people seem to like this song. 

The rest of the tracks on the second LP average to 13:20 each.  One features roughly 13:20 of Eric Clapton playing three notes in sequence on guitar, the next features roughly 13:20 of Jack Bruce playing 2 notes in sequence on a harmonica, and the final track is roughly 13:20 of Ginger Baker playing no notes at all on his drums.  I am either way too smart or way too stupid to enjoy any of it.  Apparently, my father was on the same wavelength when he purchased this record, as evidenced by this piece of vinyl’s fabulous condition.

The first LP is a bit more interesting.  Although the running times for the songs are considerably shorter than the tracks on the second LP, but they’re still defined by their lack of focus and intentionality.  The material on this record functions more than anything else as an artifact of a band’s internal power struggle.  The songs swing back and forth between psych rock and blues rock, each track feeling like one member of the band working hard to prove the superiority of their own musical perspective.  The listener is rarely invited in.  It’s unclear what sort of emotion or story we’re meant to take away from any of these songs, with the possible exception of “White Room,” which is the record’s most popular and best song by a wide margin.

The song included in this post is not nearly as successful or popular.  “Pressed Rat and Warthog,” is a rambling, quasi-musical spoken-word narrative about fictional animals going on adventures together.  Or something.  The track stood out to me (for reasons that may be obvious to the reader), but it’s not representative of the record.  Then again, none of these songs really is, because this record doesn’t really make any particular statement or sound any particular way.  So, enjoy!

I take comfort in the fact that my father seems to have spent very little time with Wheels of Fire.  This record feels like a real divergence from the sweet-natured country and blues recordings that make up the lion’s share of this collection I’ve stolen. He moved as a young adult from central Virginia to Berkeley, CA in the early 70’s, and I have to imagine the cultural adjustment must have been a very difficult one, fraught with missteps like this one.

Here’s the scene I’m imagining to explain the presence of this beautiful copy of this terrible record in my father’s collection.  Maybe he’s at party, putting too much stock into the tastes and opinions of some loudmouth hipster guy.  There’s a lot of discussion about Clapton and his genius interpretations of early twentieth century American music (and he’s a Brit, too!).  There’s a comment or two on the brilliance of the 17-minute-long guitar solo that makes up side 4’s “Spoonful,” and how the band is pushing both rock music and early blues into the realms of Minimalism, freeing themselves and their audience from the tyranny of song structure.  I’m sure there is a lot of nodding.

Maybe after this party, he walks to the neighborhood record store, and trades actual money for this record, admiring its slick metallic packaging and placing it on his turntable, prepared to have his mind blown.  Two baffling, intolerable hours go by.  Then, maybe he removes the second LP from the player and gently places it back in its sleeve.  He then sticks Cream’s Wheels of Fire on the shelf and forgets about it forever.  He instead listens to something he actually enjoys.  We all make mistakes in our twenties.  The important thing is that we learn from them, right?

THE STATLER BROTHERS - FLOWERS ON THE WALL

This is a ceaselessly polite country vocal record produced in 1966 by four boys from Staunton, Virginia, about forty miles away from where I grew up.  The best song by far is the title track, a cheerful and sarcastic description of loneliness that rings far truer than most songs in its genre.  Quentin Tarantino featured it on the soundtrack for Pulp Fiction, and he’s a smart guy, so you know it’s probably a good song.

Quentin’s gotten “Flowers on the Wall” enough exposure, so instead I’m going to focus on the cover of “King of the Road.”  The Statler Brothers’ reinterpret Roger Miller’s classic, replacing the breezy, aw-shucks confidence of the original recording with an overwhelming veneer of polish and sophistication.  The carefully manicured four-part harmonies and zippy acoustic guitar place heavy emphasis on the regality of the song’s title, evoking the country club more than the rail yards.  It’s an interesting choice.

It’s impossible to take this version of the song at face value because it’s a lie.  Either the Statler Brothers are presenting a relentlessly white-washed version of transient living in order to provide a vicarious thrill for an upscale audience, or they’re faithfully representing the fiction their titular rail-riding bum is telling himself.  I prefer the latter explanation.  The narrator of the Statler Brothers’ “King of the Road” has lost all connection to reality – he’s become psychotic, unable to face the hardships of the road for what they are.  Where we might hear the sounds of two drunks beating each other to death in an alley, he hears the cascading harmonies of the Statler Brothers carrying him into a peaceful night’s sleep.  God knows what sort of trauma he suffered to disconnect him in this way.

Anyway, Flowers on the Wall is enjoyable all the way through.  Other than the title track, it might be slight, but the combination of the brothers’ impeccable harmony work and their knack for grabbing resonant images from day-to-day life in their original songs make this a record I don’t regret stealing.  I imagine my father listening to this a few times, whistling along with its best melodies.