Album Review: ‘Play On: A Raspberries Tribute’
GUEST POST: Jordan Oakes (Yellow Pills Magazine)
People have described Raspberries as being a sort of self-contained power pop triumvirate—an even-handed combo of The Beatles, The Who and The Beach Boys.
But there also lurks a second-tier of rich influences—gap-fillers like Small Faces (“Tonight” is based on “Tin Soldier”), The Left Banke, and the primal hard-rock of Free. Add to that Carmen’s classical upbringing—specifically his love of Rachmaninoff—and you have something that’s pretty novel.
Pretty and novel.
But those handy comparisons come largely from rock critics, not the massive pop audience sought and deserved by Raspberries (officially spelled with no “the,” but I can’t seem to absolve people of the definite article). The most visceral, untainted assessments of the group come from people listening to them for the first time. On YouTube, a newbie marvels at how “Go All the Way,” with its bipolar dynamism (my term), veers from Led Zeppelin to Billy Joel, and then back again.
Were Raspberries ahead of their time or late getting the memo?
They donned matching white suits before disco danced its way into pop culture; they were an antidote to acid rock in the un-melodic era when music consumers had less a sweet tooth than a Spooky Tooth. The zeitgeist wasn’t kind to anachronisms, and the time wouldn’t allow Raspberries to be anything but outsiders.
Daring to put hard rock and soft rock in a (hit) single song, the band embodied a cross between “across the pond” (let’s say Liverpool), the Pacific Ocean, and Lake Erie. Produced by Jimmy Ienner with an astute post-Spector density built to sound great on transistors, Raspberries, in short, brought fun back to radio. In a wasteland of prog rock noodling and sensitive singer songwriters, they provided a fresh spring—a summer, really—in which you could dip a tapping toe.
Toeing the line, tribute albums comprise three basic approaches:
A band can whip up a studiously faithful copy/recreation of the honoree’s music, down to the last bell and whistle.
Or they can apply a finishing touch that was somehow missing from the original recording—a noble attempt at addressing a “what if?”
Or a group can throw out the rulebook completely, carve their initials into the lyrics, or step boldly into the shoes of a counterintuitive genre. (Think of Sonic Youth’s flattening take on the Carpenters’ “Superstar.”) They can put it under the hipster spotlight of subversion, condescension, or irony.
Songs in this context have no defense; they are subject to the whimsy of musicians who want to recreate them in their own image. One might even argue that tribute albums are more fun for the participating bands than the listener, who may be there only for the sake of curiosity—a sort of “look what they’ve done to my song, Ma.”
What’s more, inevitably those who bought the album because they love the honored band will revert back to the originals for sustenance.
Play On, though, is different.
Producers Ken Sharp and Fernando Perdomo have assembled a varied cast that fully inhabit the songs. Some of the usual suspects are in the lineup, but on Play On (Think Like A Key Music), big names mingle with local heroes; rock legends are juxtaposed with “next big things”; cult popsters stand proudly with ‘70s superstars. (Note: The compilation is available on CD and via digital download, but isn’t streaming.)
For one thing, this compilation is not only a great argument for Carmen as a historically important songwriter, it elevates even the songs not written by him to a new level of discovery-worthiness. While not a flaw per se, some of Carmen’s songs do have a high disaccharide content; and they’re fronted by his creamy, fluttery singing, which, although beautiful, carries most of the vocal burden.
And at times their cock rock preening came off like the flexing of a pop band punching above their weight. But Play On is the best case for respecting Raspberries I’ve ever heard and shows that many of their compositions are a one-size-fits-all phenomenon. They’re genre-adaptable and easy to (re-)interpret.
The opener (and how could it not be?), “Go All the Way,” by Rick Springfield takes a straightforward approach; maybe sped up a notch.
It’s a song rarely covered, possibly because no one knows how to play that raunchy opening riff exactly right—nobody that is, except Wally Bryson, who invented it with his own hands. But Springfield keeps it sweet and zesty, with a teaspoon of glam. He also, of course, adds considerable star power to this ambitious double CD. When the ‘Berries are revered by such luminous personalities, it can’t help but add prestige and gravitas.
Katie Ferrara’s Susanna Hoffs-esque coverage of “Come Around and See Me” takes a song that’s memorable and unarguably catchy, but always seemed a bit of a lark. She makes it radiate, gently, like a sleeper. It has a delicate music-box quality, and perhaps even a dash of The Partridge Family.
Robin Taylor Zander, he of Cheap Trick royalty, brings out the nascent baroque underpinnings of “Don’t Want to Say Goodbye” without committing Banke robbery. “Ecstacy” (sic) is provided a fairly straight reading by Eric Dover, even more raw than the original. His ecstatic version lives up to the title. Lou Gramm doesn’t translate “Tonight” to a Foreigner language; in plain English, the man’s a jukebox hero. Add a “y” to his last name, and that’s what he deserves for this massive cover. (He more than deserves my quarter, too.)
John Waite takes a serious stab at “I Don’t Know What I Want,” a deep cut in which the erstwhile Baby puts his guitar-picking finger directly on the pulse of the song’s ennui and frustration. Not just that; he seamlessly bookends his version with windmill guitar quotations from The Who. Waite’s old band were contemporaries of Raspberries, and that connection more than strengthens his relevance here.
Popdudes turn the Beach Boys-y vehicle “Drivin’ Around” into a perfect collision of reverence and skill. (It could be a smash.)
Olivia Rubini takes one of my least-favorite ‘Berries ballads—the slight, treacly “Waiting”—and brightens it up, giving it the weight and intimacy of folk rock. It’s better than the original which has finally been arranged (and that’s saying something, because even if it isn’t Carmen’s best moment, it’s a good song in search of a proper syrup-free arrangement).
Tori Holub transforms “Starting Over” into a lost, if instant, Carpenters classic. Abetted by a pillowy Richard Carpenter-style production, the inspired track is one of the tribute’s great successes. Outside of the Pakastani singer Rumer, Holub is the rightful heir to the throne of Karen Carpenter. Darian Sahanaja imbues the cinematic “On the Beach” with the psychedelic Pet Sounds flourish it’s always asked for.
Co-producer Ken Sharp finds the latent T. Rex rhythms in “I’m a Rocker,” the boppy approach playing down the braggadocio cock rock of the self-conscious original. Sharp’s increasingly versatile singing is superb here (Marc Bolan has sent him a telegram to that effect; he isn’t banging a gong). Utopian Kasim Sulton gives us a good “Cry,” and brings out the hiding-in-plain-sight resemblance to Badfinger’s “Money.”
The Lemon Twigs cover both “Let’s Pretend” and the title track (as it were), delivering each with the sonic equivalency of photo realism.
“Play On”—the song—does a bit of Badfinger-borrowing too, this time from that band’s raucous “I Can’t Take It.” It’s a paean to rock and roll touring: the exhilaration and exhaustion; the girls; the nightly tear down, the “no place is home” disorientation. The Twigs sound wise beyond their years, and, as on “Let’s Pretend,” they turn the faithfulness dial up to nine. Fortunately, their performance lives up to that dedication.
The buzz on The Twigs is louder than a Herschell Gordon Lewis chainsaw, and for good reason. Did I mention their dad is also on this compilation, with a driving version of “Cruisin’ Music”? That title, of course, is the best way to hear Raspberries—though the tune’s not quite as meta as “Overnight Sensation (Hit Record),” which is done great justice by Shoes here.
Rob Bonfiglio gives the pensively optimistic (and optometric) “Rose Colored Glasses” the requisite sincerity—with such interpretive clarity, it could almost be renamed “Rose Colored Contacts.” The tribute closes with the rare “Please Let Me Come Back Home,” originally an early Raspberries demo. The mysterious Bambi Kino brings the raucous song to life by giving it an enthused pre-Brian Epstein Merseybeat vibe.
There are far too many other artists to mention here, including Marshall Crenshaw, Karla DeVito, P-Hux, and Hudson Brothers.
And there isn’t a single bad track. Most are stunning—some are inventive and unpredictable. Every artist fits their song like a (berry-picking) glove.
Play On takes one band’s catalog and demonstrates just how far a good song will travel—in years and miles—and still sound (and in the case of the first LP’s scratch ‘n’ sniff cover, smell) fresh.
As of this writing, the compilation is selling steadily; it hasn’t gotten berried—er, buried—in the rubble. Perhaps someday Raspberries will win the kind of lionization now reserved exclusively for Big Star.
Let’s pretend it’s already happened.
Jordan Oakes founded, published, and edited the Yellow Pills power pop magazine beginning in 1991, and compiled five Yellow Pills CD compilations beginning in 1993. His journalism has also appeared in Sound Choice, Speak, The Riverfront Times, The Christian Science Monitor, Rolling Stone’s ‘Alt-Rock-a-Rama’ book, and elsewhere. He’s a published poet and occasional standup comedian. He loves dogs and dog-eared magazines.
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Farewell To A Musical Inspiration
Don’t Want To Say Goodbye
Eric Carmen, lead vocalist/songwriter for power pop legends Raspberries and a successful solo artist, passed away in early March. After reading longtime indie pop rocker and current YouTube host Adam Marsland’s personal and heartfelt memories of his musical hero on Facebook, I asked if I could share a version of it here. I think it says a lot about the …
