“AND.”

Step it up!!!!

I

3:31am. The insomniac lives. IT creeps, IT crawls, IT swims, and all night long IT’s paddled down my over-populated nocturnal stream of consciousness toward this Martyonian shore, and now that Trane (Coltrane) has left the station after a ten minute soprano solo on Spiritual, ending in a total eclipse of my brain, and now that Dolphy has finished his bass clarinet solo of equal mastery, the end of which sounds like a bezillion wild geese in the west a-yaking all at once, (so beautiful) I will rap on JM’s “AND.”, ’cause I feel guilty and need to…confess.

II

“Bless me Father for I have sinned,” I whispered as I closed the door and heard the confessional window slide open.
Deep Irish accent: “Okay Son, tell me about your transgressions.”
Oh, Man, not Father Mulrooney, he’s gotta be 70 years old, he’ll never understand: “Ahhh, Father,” what the hell, “Father, I recently took Big John for granted.”
“You took the Baptist for granted, did you?”
“No, not the Baptist, Sir, not the Baptist.”
“Big John? Which Big John?” Father Mulrooney asked.
“Big John the Martyn,” I replied waiting for his follow-up question.
“What’s wrong with you Boy, taking that Man for granted, have you lost your mind?”
“You know John Martyn?”
“Do you take me for a fool, Son? Every night before bed I have a little nip of spirits, put on my head-phones and get down in that groove of his. Can’t fall asleep until I’ve heard a few cuts.”
“Do you have a favorite song of his? Kees would be interested in your top pick.”
“I have just two words for Kees.”
“Yes, and they are?”
“Big Muff.”
“Father!!!”
“Don’t give me that holier than thou Father crap. What did you expect, Over the Rainbow? Now tell me, how did you happen to take Big John for granted you blasphemous, good for nothing little punk?”
“Big Muff, Father, Big Muff.”
“Get over it little Man, now what about you, spit it out you sinner.”
“Well, you know, I listened to AND a few times and put it away thinking it was, you know, okay, but nothing new….”
“But nothing new, do five Father Time’s, ten Jack the Lad’s, listen to the record again, and call me in the morning.”

III

Yes, I took the Man for granted. When I received And in the mail I played it a few times and said, “Nice, but kinda laid back, mellow, is putting it mild,” and then I put it away. About a month ago I went home to NYC and late one afternoon got stuck in the subway. I was under the East River, no lights, no air conditioning, hot, rather odoriferous and rank, and since And was in the Walkman I put on the headphones and pressed play for some needed distraction and mellowness.

Now here’s the thing, up until that point I liked the first three songs and then lost it, but since I was in the dark and had time I let it play. What I realized is that the album really starts on cut #4. Don’t get me wrong, Sunshine’s Better, Suzanne, and The Downward Pull of Human Nature are dynamite, but they sound familiar. Especially Suzanne with the annoying one gear (octave) voice of Phil Collins drowning out John’s flittering, fluttering vocalizations. I dig Collins on other stuff, but John needs Phil on his records as much as I need the swollen liver that burps and floats inside my body.

IV

Yeah, the first time I heard John was at the old Fillmore East, long time ago (1969/70). He opened for two groups, Traffic, I believe, being the head liner, and I was noddin’ in the balcony waitin’ for the sweet soul of little Stevie when I realized that the opening act was on stage and THEY were in a major league serious poly-rhythmic groove with growling singer and you Martynized maniacs know the rest ’cause it happened to you: The man was alone on stage–ALONE, and he just blew the roof off the joint, (blew the top of my head off, too) peeled the paint from the walls, put his boot in my heart where it’s stayed all these years. It was a musical fuckin’ epiphany, and when the over-dosed Fillmore East crowd began screaming “MORE, MORE, MORE” for the third time I remember thinking, No, let that man go get some rest.
Now I saw John about three or four more times the next couple of years but since I couldn’t find any of his recordings I had no idea he had been a traditional type folk singer up to that point in time (actually I didn’t realize that until around 1985 when I heard London Conversation). Whenever I went into a record store I checked the “M” section first, then found someone who worked there and asked, “Have you ever heard of John Martyn?”
One day (1971?) this wise, old (over thirty) record store dude answers, “M-a-r-t-Y-N, that John Martyn.”
“YEAH, you have any of his records?”
“John Martyn, the Folk Singer?”
Now I’m thinking: Folk Singer, maybe that song ‘over the hill, hey hey hey, over the hill,’ maybe, but ‘you been moven on zzzzzoooollllid air,’ and ‘I’d rather be the devil,’ and I was wondering what this cat is smoking and how do I get me some and I said, “Folk singer?”
“Yeah, folk singer!”
“You mean folk singer like…like…like Donovan?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Folk singer.”
“Yeah, and we have a new album of his right over there in the FOLK section.”
“Thanks, Man,” I said, picked up the album and called 911 on my way to the subway thinking, “Folk music, ‘day dreams by the sea, whah, whah, whah, whah, whahhhhhhhhhhh…’, shit, what does that dude listen to when he really wants to get down?”

V

Anyway, in the dark, alone on the Lexington Avenue express, I closed my eyes and heard AND for the first time, and the thing about AND is that it just might be the beginning of another big change in John’s music. Not a change as monumental as going from folk music to the on the edge, drama filled, Broadway bound jazz tinged Martynizing we’ve loved since the advent of the Solid Air or Bless the Weather sound, but a move heading toward the multi-layered, multi-level harmonizations of sound, and using his voice or voices truly as additional instruments.

From the first lines of Sunshine’s Better we also hear a change in his voice–Ahhhhhh baby, ahhhhhhh, baby–a new JM/Kafka type torture rack, inscribing his tales, high and low, across my bod and brain and I almost creamed my pants. His voice is clearer than it’s been in years, and the gravel in his throat, raspier than ever, instead of detracting from his singing adds a whole new quality of lust and pain to his vocalizations; it’s Fresh Gravel in the driveway we hear crunching under the tires of his/my/your lover’s lover coming to play. This new sound has teeth, it cuts, saws, lacerates the soul–it’s a Love Shark that’s been bearing down on us for years, but now it’s teeth have sunk into our flesh.

This opening cut sets the pace for the record, it’s river music, a slow paddle, floating, drifting, dreaming, running through water like birds on fire, like birds of a feather…yeah, do the Martyn scat shuffle–through the water, through the ice, through the sun, through the jungle, through the desert sands on the swings and roundabouts, and it makes no sense but it works. Killer. This is Johnny-Boy the lover with a hard-on like we’ve not heard before.

Suzanne continues the dream. John’s voice as deep in the ground as a California Redwood, playing the low octave foil to our drummer and latter-day Frankie Valle. I really would like to hear an alternate take of Suzanne with John backing himself up on vocals. John’s high voice is so beautiful (Who believes in Angels), so enticing, has such gravitation pull that I still can’t see the purpose of using Phil Collins here.

Even though John sounds like he’s doing a Bill Clinton imitation the first time he sings consider this, consider that, there’s no doubt that The Downward Pull of Human Nature is bound to be a Martyn classic. It takes us even deeper into the hypnotic groove of AND and in my humble opinion it’s got it all; John in a loose mood, a medium tempo cruise down the river of Martyn the Existentialist; and Dick (Clark), I like the beat so I’ll give it a 95; with a certain urgency and with some of his most mature writing ever: …ever get so drunk that you fell without falling, did you feel that six foot destiny just calling you home? Yes, I think we all have, and thank you for mentioning it, John!!!

All in Your Favor finds John at his bewitching best, dropping Phil Collins and playing his own alter-ego, singing back-up, over-laying his voice and doing a solo-duet. Not that he hasn’t done this in the past, he has, but this album has such a strong hypnotic quality–his voice jazzy as hell, the instrumental accompaniment used for even further layering of emotions usually left outside the door–the title of the record should be Hypnotized. I love the end of this cut when John’s voices spiral down the river together, lapping up on each others shore–which one is singing lead? Backing vocals? Both serve both purposes on this most mesmerizing tune.

A little Strange continues the laid back, jazzy, enchanting theme being put forth by JM, but not my favorite tune. Who Are They is another one of those inexplicable Martyn tunes, not normal, the driveway gravel crushing under the weight of the written word, the truth, beauty and simplicity of the prose, sung in Prosac time–profound.

Now, to be perfectly honest and I always try to be that, because of the continuously laid-back nature of the record through these first six cuts, I was beginning to consider, perhaps, sending John some Geritol, a pinch of Ginsing, a little rocket fuel, when–wouldn’t ya know it–the old-boy moves forward to Step It Up, and as always the intensity of his music has that miraculous ability to start shakin’ your body, like some kind of new magnetic force it pulls my shoulders one way, my head the other way, arms play drums, strum guitars, and after almost three decades of listening to this relatively unknown genius he still puts the freeze on me, goose bumps from neck to dome, and makes me stand up and cha-cha around the Lexington Avenue Express in the dark, slow dancing all by myself, I switch and do the “mashed potatoes,” the “swim,” the “stroll,” do a dip & dangle past a pole, and it’s “Limbo” time and I can get pretty low, so under the bar I go, right out between the cars where I can be alone and Stepping it up I do a combo “Watusi, Irish Fuckin’ Jig” in the dark dank New York Subway and all I can say is that JM, as he mumbles, grumbles and remembers, forces tears from my eyes and shuts off the noise in my head, and so he is very special to me.

I don’t know about the rest of you Martynians, but any cut that starts out, Carmine, turn the screw and drive me mad, rendered in the high drama of John’s reading of the song, that down low, rascalian voice of a man in love lust pain is a song I’m gonna instantly identify with. Carmine, which could be my favorite cut, is the epitome of John’s next move. It swings like mad, that weird magnetic energy really grabbing hold of my shoulders and shaking me down, a marionette, a dancing fool on the subway, doing a mambo right down the middle of the subway car–possessed, and embarrassed as I do believe I was singing out loud. And then there’s the knife in the heart She’s a Lover.
‘Nuff said.
Except for the down side of the record…..ha!
And what do you all make of the acid version of Sunshine’s Better at the end of She’s a lover? Who’s to know–maybe that’s the next direction for the man who on AND, is schmoosing, cruising, his voice dancing across octaves in a soft-shoe bo-jangles kind a way, blowing some serious kilt wearing Glasgow Rhythm and Blues. Luv it.

Glenn Frantz

About Glenn Frantz

Glenn was born in Brooklyn, New York USA on April 2, 1949.  His mother died when he was 13 years old and his teen years were in the ’60’s when he got into drugs, sex and rock ‘n roll, and also some college! Glenn had some dark times but beat the drugs and joined Synanon, a therupeutic community, in 1977, out in California.

He was a Mets fan, loved hockey, loved music and loved John Martyn ‘s music since becoming a fan in 1970.  He also loved reading and writing, all kinds of art and Rumi poems.  Many of Glenn’s short stories and poems have been published and he had recently written a book. Glenn had Christmas lights up in his apartment all year long….one of life’s great characters and a truly compassionate man.

Glenn died in Encinitas, California on July 1, 2003 aged  54 years. A great loss to his friends, family and the world at large.