Stu
04-16-2007, 10:14 PM
OK. I don't normally review records around here. Not only are my musical tastes somewhat eclectic in the first place, they don't typically line up closely with the average listener around here. But I just had to say something about this one:
Wanda Jackson: Vintage Collections; Capitol, 1996
I picked up this CD at Borders the other day, so it must be reasonably available. When I was a kid, my dad had a couple Wanda records on vinyl from the 50s. I always remembered falling in love with that voice, despite the fact that the records were so beat up I could barely hear the songs. Later in life, I would look around for Wanda CDs, but all I could find were her 70s and later gospel releases. Nothing against the Lord, but that wasn't what I remembered from my pop's records, and that wasn't what I was looking for.
When Wanda was just starting out, she was billed as "The Female Elvis," and she would go on the Louisiana Hayride and run the typical Hayride gamut from soulful honky-tonk to flat-out rockabilly. I, of course, was electrified by that hard rockin' juvenile delinquent music. And when you factor in a foxy brunette with a smoky, Tennesseee hillbilly accent ripping it out, young Stu was instantly and permanently hypnotized. It never for a second entered my mind that this heartbreaker was likely older than my mom. It still doesn't. This collection presents the music I remember.
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v134/stu2000/Wanda.jpg
About half the album is straight up Nashville honky-tonk. I don't know if I'll ever be able to sell any of you on the merits of this music. But even if the feeble light in your little soul winks out when you hear Loretta Lynn or Kitty Wells, You have got to listen to the rest of this record. It's leather jacket and greasy hair music. The kind kids used to hear at drag races and the kind that Quentin Tarantino likes to fold into his movies now.
She tears up Elvis's Hard Headed woman, with a nasty, ironic edge--y'know--cause she's a girl. Her humor and sheer delight with messing with guys is apparent on Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad:
To teach him a lesson and make him mad
I went out on a date with the best friend he had
That made him mad, boy
Hot dog! That made him mad
And he hugged me and he kissed me and he asked me not to do it again
I defy you to stand still during classic rockers like Rock Your Baby (All Night Long), or Let's Have A Party, or Mean Mean Man. Hoo-Baby--that kind of music will get you kicked off the Opry (as her snug, spaghetti-strapped dress almost did the one time she went on--Ernest Tubb made her wear a jacket!)
But the two tracks on this CD that cut straight into my limbic system and activate my fight or flight (or the other one) response are violent, dangerous delinquent anthems:
Fugiyama Mama--first, you'll fall in love with her hillbilly pronunciations of Japanese words, and her Buddy Holly-esque hiccups on "fOO--giyama yama: fOO--giyama"
I drink a quart of saki
smoke dynamite
I chase it with tobaccy
and then shoot out the lights
Cause I'm a Fugiyama Mama
and I'm just about to blow my top
When I start eruptin'
Ain't nobody gonna make me stop
You can call me crazy
so deaf and dumb
But I can cause destruction
just like the atom bomb
Cause I'm a Fugiyama Mama . . .
Holy crap. Is it just me, or is she talking about something besides volcanos? Oh man. I need a glass of water . . .
And--in my opinion--the ultimate Wanda Jackson track, the infamous theme song to The Panty Farm, and any number of other novels I've written in my head--is Riot in Cell Block #9
On July the second, 1953
I was serving time in Tehachapi
4 o'clock in the mornin'
I was sleepin in my cell
I heard a whistle blow
And I heard somebody yell
There's a riot goin on
<THERE'S on goin riot a>(there's a riot going on)background girls
There's a riot goin on
(there's a riot goin on)background girls
<THERE'S on goin riot a>
There's a riot goin on--in cell block number nine
The trouble all started up in cell block number four
Spread like fire across the prison floor
The warden came in, with a big tommy gun
BANG BANG BANG
Trying to stop our fun
Cause there's a riot goin on . . .
Maybe it's just the way I think, but I still feel like I'm picking up on whatcha call a "subtext." And man--the sweaty snarl in her voice is indescribably h--h--hot! Wanda Jackson records and Bette Page pictures inspire my longing for the sexually repressive times of the 50s to return. Nothing they do now--not even Shakira--is as blisteringly steamy as that. Don't take my word for it.
I don't know what you fellas like to listen most of the time, but if you have any red blood in your veins at all, you'll dig this record. Give it a spin at your next sock hop or platter party, and you will not be disappointed.
Wanda Jackson: Vintage Collections; Capitol, 1996
I picked up this CD at Borders the other day, so it must be reasonably available. When I was a kid, my dad had a couple Wanda records on vinyl from the 50s. I always remembered falling in love with that voice, despite the fact that the records were so beat up I could barely hear the songs. Later in life, I would look around for Wanda CDs, but all I could find were her 70s and later gospel releases. Nothing against the Lord, but that wasn't what I remembered from my pop's records, and that wasn't what I was looking for.
When Wanda was just starting out, she was billed as "The Female Elvis," and she would go on the Louisiana Hayride and run the typical Hayride gamut from soulful honky-tonk to flat-out rockabilly. I, of course, was electrified by that hard rockin' juvenile delinquent music. And when you factor in a foxy brunette with a smoky, Tennesseee hillbilly accent ripping it out, young Stu was instantly and permanently hypnotized. It never for a second entered my mind that this heartbreaker was likely older than my mom. It still doesn't. This collection presents the music I remember.
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v134/stu2000/Wanda.jpg
About half the album is straight up Nashville honky-tonk. I don't know if I'll ever be able to sell any of you on the merits of this music. But even if the feeble light in your little soul winks out when you hear Loretta Lynn or Kitty Wells, You have got to listen to the rest of this record. It's leather jacket and greasy hair music. The kind kids used to hear at drag races and the kind that Quentin Tarantino likes to fold into his movies now.
She tears up Elvis's Hard Headed woman, with a nasty, ironic edge--y'know--cause she's a girl. Her humor and sheer delight with messing with guys is apparent on Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad:
To teach him a lesson and make him mad
I went out on a date with the best friend he had
That made him mad, boy
Hot dog! That made him mad
And he hugged me and he kissed me and he asked me not to do it again
I defy you to stand still during classic rockers like Rock Your Baby (All Night Long), or Let's Have A Party, or Mean Mean Man. Hoo-Baby--that kind of music will get you kicked off the Opry (as her snug, spaghetti-strapped dress almost did the one time she went on--Ernest Tubb made her wear a jacket!)
But the two tracks on this CD that cut straight into my limbic system and activate my fight or flight (or the other one) response are violent, dangerous delinquent anthems:
Fugiyama Mama--first, you'll fall in love with her hillbilly pronunciations of Japanese words, and her Buddy Holly-esque hiccups on "fOO--giyama yama: fOO--giyama"
I drink a quart of saki
smoke dynamite
I chase it with tobaccy
and then shoot out the lights
Cause I'm a Fugiyama Mama
and I'm just about to blow my top
When I start eruptin'
Ain't nobody gonna make me stop
You can call me crazy
so deaf and dumb
But I can cause destruction
just like the atom bomb
Cause I'm a Fugiyama Mama . . .
Holy crap. Is it just me, or is she talking about something besides volcanos? Oh man. I need a glass of water . . .
And--in my opinion--the ultimate Wanda Jackson track, the infamous theme song to The Panty Farm, and any number of other novels I've written in my head--is Riot in Cell Block #9
On July the second, 1953
I was serving time in Tehachapi
4 o'clock in the mornin'
I was sleepin in my cell
I heard a whistle blow
And I heard somebody yell
There's a riot goin on
<THERE'S on goin riot a>(there's a riot going on)background girls
There's a riot goin on
(there's a riot goin on)background girls
<THERE'S on goin riot a>
There's a riot goin on--in cell block number nine
The trouble all started up in cell block number four
Spread like fire across the prison floor
The warden came in, with a big tommy gun
BANG BANG BANG
Trying to stop our fun
Cause there's a riot goin on . . .
Maybe it's just the way I think, but I still feel like I'm picking up on whatcha call a "subtext." And man--the sweaty snarl in her voice is indescribably h--h--hot! Wanda Jackson records and Bette Page pictures inspire my longing for the sexually repressive times of the 50s to return. Nothing they do now--not even Shakira--is as blisteringly steamy as that. Don't take my word for it.
I don't know what you fellas like to listen most of the time, but if you have any red blood in your veins at all, you'll dig this record. Give it a spin at your next sock hop or platter party, and you will not be disappointed.