Skip vs. Cream

yotochan

Skip vs. Cream

Posted over 4 years ago

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Skip James

These recordings are about forty years apart and the last was recorded forty years ago roughly. Fascinating.

Comments (9)

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yotochan says ~bSqVCrMBPMl.mp3~

Permalink posted 07/25/2007
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dermahrk says Interesting. I pretty much know the Cream version by heart but have only heard the other once, if that. It seems like the time I heard it, it did not sound as similar as this does in terms of melody and structure as the Cream version. Elk Grove, CA is mid-state, near Sacramento (thank you Mapquest), so what is up with the "Minor Outlying Islands"?

Permalink posted 07/25/2007
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yotochan says That's where I'm at culturally after living in San Francisco for twenty years. Kind of a personal thing, I like the sound of it.

Permalink posted 07/25/2007
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Spike says The only known photo of Skip James before the 1960s, from the original artwork for a 1931 Paramount Records ad, recently discovered by Richard Nevins. The following is from Steven Calt's brilliant biography _I'd Rather Be the Devil: Skip James and the Blues_ , Da Capo Press, NY 1994, pp. 322-326. "Instead of throwing him overboard, his new generation of admirers threw him a lifeline. This occurred in the form of Cream's rock version of "I'm So Glad," released on the album _Fresh Cream_ in December of 1966. Already its lead performer Eric Clapton, a 21-year-old prodigy with three years' professional experience, was hailed as a great guitar player. Although he had listened to James' original recording, which had been re-issued the previous year by The Origin Jazz Library, Clapton based his adaptation on the simplified rendition that had recently appeared on Vanguard. He had no inkling of its pop predecessor, then unknown to record collectors. "Taken together, the two versions of "I'm So Glad" form a unique document, illustrating the striking difference in blues and rock musical languages. No other song was transfigured into such myriad forms, spanning two races and eras. Each unique expression of the same basic musical motif contained real musical value. Its elasticity was made possible by the basic simplicity of the original 1927 composition by Art Sizemore, "So Tired" (with lyrics supplied by George A. Little), the crux of which was a four-bar air blown up into a sixteen bar refrain set in an A-A-B-A pattern. It enjoyed a curious multi-faceted musical existence in the form of a hit 1928 rendition by Gene Austin, one of the day's most popular crooners, a jazz-styled dance rendition by the Jean Goldkette Orchestra, "race" renditions by Lonnie Johnson and the Dallas String Band, and finally, an ambitous rearrangement by Skip James in the form of "I'm So Glad," which comes across as neither a pop nor blues song, but something completely unique." ~KDCzJCIJfyF.mp3~ [At the 1:45 mark of this track, the pianist Hoagy Carmichael sings] "Taking his cue from its simple melodic core, James converted "So Tired" into an astounding vocal and instrumental tour de force, in which his guitar playing existed to augment his voice. The anemic vocal ambience of the original was completely uprooted; James sang with a wild intensity that was rarely achieved in any vocal music of the era. His wailing voice and the surging guitar it suddenly triggered completely upended the mood of the original; it was like the difference between a 1930s Hollywood movie (perhaps with Fred Astaire) and a surrealistic horror movie. One could almost picture, in fact, a scene of musicians in tuxedos playing the Goldkette version at a posh country club, only to be disrupted by the howling voice of James, a musical werewolf lurking outside in the dark, out to avenge himself on high society, his keening falsetto shattering champagne glasses and creating pandemonium among the brilliantine-haired musicians. But the frenzy and fervor James exhibited was something other than undisciplined chaos; its effect was particularly striking because of the refined sense of musicianship that accompanied it. "To listen to the Cream version is to inhabit still another universe, that of the spacey 60s. Like many contemporary rock songs, it was a theatrical musical expression of the culture it adorned, to such an extent that it was almost necessary to de-code the song through the peculiar argot of the era. For example, it dramatized the pervasive acid-induced catchphrase "I'm going through changes" in its sudden introduction of unexpected effects, such as a gratuitous interlude of silence (actually borrowed, it is likely, from Bobby Freeman's Do You Wanna Dance?), the deployment of two distinct vocal styles (a simpering monotone set against a chorus, and a shout), and an a cappella conclusion involving a vocal trio. Jack Bruce's chant-like incantation of a single phrase ("I'm so glad") that was set against a background chorus echoing the same words in an ascending melodic phrase was a seeming invocation of the nebulous, enigmatic mysticism promoted by The Beatles, and embraced by contemporary hippies: the song appeared to be about transcendence, but did not expressly articulate any theme. "As an ensemble piece, it reflected the "do your own thing" credo of the age, Ginger Baker's drumming and Clapton's lead guitar simply proceeding on their own. This lack of interplay and cohesiveness in a band of de facto soloists was completely gauche by comparison with the Goldkette orchestration, and would have resulted in a mediocre example of Sixties' helter skelter were it not for the disciplined contribution of bass guitarist Jack Bruce, whose unusual drone-like melodic line fanned a responsive echo to his vocal. "The Cream version attempted to replicate the frantic fervor of the James Paramount, which was the basic quality that gave James' tune its potential rock currency. The rock version, however, was more controlled and inhibited. Rock of the period was celebrated for its "energy," and this commodity was supplied by Baker's drumming; Clapton's 31 1/2 bar single note guitar break (cut almost to pop song dimensions) was basically meandering filler, lacking either a theme or a percussive punch. It was completely insipid by comparison with James' original breaks, but more spontaneous, in keeping with rock playing. The performer was hamstrung by his rhythm-and-blues-based flatpicking approach, which made James' fingerpicked runs inaccessible. The only outright suggestion of James' playing occurred in its fingerpicked introduction (a four-bar phrase descending three frets to the tonic, given a repeat), which conventionalized the most conventional and least ambitious figure of James' tune. But this unprepossessing figure was skillfully used to invert the absent crescendo effect of James' original Paramount, creating a decrescendo. The imaginative nature of the overall arrangement more than compensated for the lack of instrumental technique, it being more difficult, ultimately, to arrive at interesting music than to play impressive guitar licks. "Unlike such rock impurists as The Rolling Stones and Canned Heat, who appropriated composer credits for copied blues songs, Cream freely credited blues singers for the compositions they recorded. The result was that James, who in reality had made only an arranger's contribution to the song, and had dishonestly failed to acknowledge its derivation (perhaps from Gene Austin's Victor recording), received the only monetary windfall of his career. Eventually, he netted between $6,000 and $10,000 as the album became a million-seller. He also drew royalties from another version that was unfamiliar to him: Deep Purple's outright copy of Clapton's rendition, which appeared on their 1968 debut album. In both instances James was the beneficiary of the piggyback effect of having a composition appear on a best-selling album which was not purchased on the basis of his own marginal contribution to it. "Without this windfall, he would have virtually starved on the decimated folk circuit of the period. When "I'm So Glad" appeared, James could not even afford the postage required to send a copy of his own Vanguard album to a female fan in France. The month before its release, on November 28th, he had written the author: "... if you all can get a concert at some place very soon maybe I can get by until January. That will be better than droping a pegion (smile) but any way I am down on the dam craacker box for real... and Christmas is near and I cant get any work." "The death of Mississippi John Hurt the previous month had deprived Avalon Productions of its only saleable commodity, and with it, the opportunity to bootstrap James to Hurt. "In a sense, the position of blues to popular music had not changed since 1950, when Leadbelly's "Good Night Irene" had become a pop hit, its original performer remaining a nonentity. But James was not bitter that a rock group had garnished a mass audience for one of his pieces. In some respects, he was too much the plantation darkey to voice the commonly-heard complaint that white performers could enrich themselves by playing black music. If he had ever formed the opinion that he might have been passed over by audiences because of his complexion, this situation would have struck him as the inevitable state of affairs, and one he did not protest. He actually told the author: "I don't expect you to treat me like I'm white." A lifetime of Jim Crow had eroded his expectations. "It was owing to his racial timidity that James pretended to have no reaction to the Cream's rendition of his work. He was willing to talk up his superior talents when they exceeded (by proclamation) those of another blues singer. To disparage a white rock group, however, was another matter. "But the Cream version rankled him to the extent of causing him to refer to it on his death bed, when his opinion could not effect his fortunes. "They got it ass backwards," he insisted. "They don't have the harmony, the rhythm; I doubled-up on it [the rhythm]. It's too good song to mess up like that." "He consoled himself with the concluding comment: "No one will ever play it like me." "James' sour reception of "Iâ€™m So Glad" actually would have been gratifying to most blues enthusiasts, who almost universally believed that whites routinely prospered by "ripping offâ€ black music, or performing pallid, inauthentic versions of "the real thing." But Cream's rendition was actually an exotic rearrangement of an exotic rearrangement, both completely unconventional within their genres. In truth most rock renditions of blues conformed to the law of the musical jungle, which was no different from the dynamic practiced by blues singers themselves. Just as animal predators gravitate towards the old, weak, or infirm victim, so did white musical opportunists (and the black blues-players before them) unfailingly single out the black artists who presented no real threat or competition. They were the first ones to extol the blues "greats" from whom they borrowed music or drew inspiration. The white musicians who copied the likes of Muddy Waters, B.B. King and Albert King had discreetly selected mentors and models who could never show them up. On the other hand, a true virtuoso like Snooks Eaglin would remain a virtual untouchable: had a highly acclaimed "rock virtuoso" ever attempted to perform his music, it would soon become obvious which guitarist was the real virtuoso. "That Skip James had tempted the rock imitator was actually a testament to his own ineffectuality as a musician. By the time Cream's "I'm So Glad" appeared, his own musicianship had degenerated to the point where he was getting even his most simple tunes "ass backwards." Increasingly, as he performed he would attempt to complicate his pieces with spontaneous single-string fills. He would begin an impromptu riff, and not know how to resolve it; the riff would limply sputter out. Even when he managed to play an extended riff that didn't contain faulty notes, his departures tended to make his rhythm disjointed."

Permalink posted 07/25/2007
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yotochan says The end? I'm So Glad.

Permalink posted 07/26/2007
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Jonh Ingham says It's fantastic to finally hear the Skip James version of this song, but the writer you have quoted has got me so riled I had to go off and fix the roof for a few hours. I'm trying not to hold it against him that he's the worst kind of blues elitest, but at least get your facts right. The Stones and Canned Heat always credited the songwriter - it's Led Zep who appropriated songs as their own compositions. Something that the rock press constantly called them to account for throughout their career, possibly one reason why Zep hated the press so much. The Stones fought for and insisted that Howling Wolf appear on the Shindig TV show with them - check it out on YouTube and just look at their faces as they sit at the feet of the master. Pete Seeger, who recorded the popular version of "Goodnight Irene", got Leadbelly onto the Newport Folk Festival as well as other places (and made sure that a lot of other blues and folk musicians got a wider audience). He remained a "nonentity" in what sense? As for the contention that "white musicians who copied the likes of Muddy Waters, B.B. King and Albert King had discreetly selected mentors and models who could never show them up"....What utter bullshit is this? In the days before extensive resissue programs, you heard what could be found. In England, knowledge of Howling Wolf's music was based on one album, called the Rocking Chair album because of a picture of said chair on the cover. People would travel hundreds of miles to listening parties just to hear it. Jeff Beck talked recently of travelling about 150 miles to one such party, where he met Clapton for the first time. American records would come into the country as individual copies via ships in Liverpool or Southampton, get taped and then people would make copies of the tapes as they spread through the country until it was so many generations down you could hardly hear music for hiss. People would make notebooks of lyrics and chord changes, which also got passed around. Phil May from the Prettythings told me in 1976 that he'd never heard the original versions of some of his favourite songs, having learned them from notebooks. Guys like Snooks Eaglin weren't ignored - no-one knew they existed. And where does he get this "competition" thing from? These guys were playing music they loved and spreading their enthusiasm to anyone who would listen. As for enriching themselves at the original musicians' expense, tell that to Stan Webb of Chicken Shack or Mick Abrahams of Blodwyn Pig, to name just two of many British blues bands who never found fortune or fame. Or Alexis Korner and Cyril Davies, who did more than anyone else to spread the news and joy of American blues in Britain. These guys aren't wealthy or even well off. They did it because they loved it. Sorry to rant for so long. I feel better now.

Permalink posted 07/28/2007
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yotochan says All said and done, they both worked for me.

Permalink posted 07/29/2007
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Jonh Ingham says They work for me too. :-)

Permalink posted 07/29/2007
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consrv4us says Skip's untouchable.

Permalink posted 04/10/2008