In a scene which was deleted from the final cut of Pulp Fiction, Uma Thurman’s character Mia Wallace asks John Travolta’s Vincent Vega if he is an Elvis person or a Beatles person. “Nobody likes them both equally,” she asserts. “Somewhere, you have to make a choice. And that choice tells you who you are.”
Well, I’m an Elvis person. Always have been, probably always will be. Not so much the King per se, but rather the potent mix of rock n’ roll, country, and blues he performed, which was then taken up by the Rolling Stones and can now be heard by such acts as ZZ Top, Social Distortion, and the Black Crowes. Though I can appreciate and admire the Beatles for their lyrical skill and mastery of studio recording techniques, their songs have never made that deep connection with me, the one which cuts through all conscious thought and resonates within on a strictly emotional level. No other musical genre but the blues seems to reach me that way. Is it because of the relative simplicity of the song structure (traditionally, one line is repeated twice, followed by another), which is able to speak volumes with so few words? Or the infinite stories of pain, loss, and regret which find purest expression in its form? I’m not sure. What I do know is that “Dear Prudence” warms my heart while “Love In Vain” crushes it in a vise and squeezes it dry. Then tosses it on the floor.
Canadian quartet Big Sugar are also planted firmly in the Elvis camp, drawing inspiration from the blues greats of yesteryear on their sophomore effort 500 Pounds, released in 1993 on Hypnotic Records (with a slightly different tracklist and running order) and again in 1995 on Silvertone Records. The band cycle through an impressive variety of styles - from noisy garage rock to tender 1950s balladeering to old-school, Mississippi Delta moaning - all while keeping the blues squarely in their sights. Though not perfect, 500 Pounds is still a keeper of a disc that should win over anyone who likes their songs brimming with melancholy.
“Ride Like Hell” is a mean, burly mother of an opening cut, sounding as if it was recorded live in the bathroom stall of a greasy truck stop off Route 66. As drummer Stich Wynston and bassist Garry Lowe pound out a thunderous beat that could serve as the soundtrack for a full-scale barroom brawl, singer/axeman Gordie Johnson peels the paint from the walls with some meaty guitar licks and howls the tale of a man forsaking both home and love in his pursuit of the open road: “Sometimes I wonder will I ever get back home?/Sometimes I wonder will my baby think of me?/But I know I’m gonna leave ‘cause I’m a driving soul.” The music alternately stutters and roars like a rattletrap Ford Mustang fighting for traction on the pockmarked blacktop as it barrels down the lonely highway, and the effect is as invigorating as anything rock n’ roll has offered up in the last ten years, Nirvana or no.
The engine cools off slightly with the sensual groove and come-hither vocals of “I’m A Ram,” which has the swagger of a club-hopping Romeo who knows he has a killer pickup line and is savoring the thrill of the chase. “You are what I lack,” Johnson purrs, “I keep on pushing, baby/You keep on pushing me back.” The song’s mild reggae flavor is further explored in the jaunty you-got-what-was-coming-to-you rhythm of “All Over Now,” showcasing the band’s talent at blending other musical styles with the blues without making the results sound forced or discordant. Their take on Traffic’s “Dear Mr. Fantasy” has the desperate energy of someone seeking a respite from the doom and gloom of life. “Do anything,” goes the plea. “Sing a song, play guitar, make it snappy.” In the hands of Big Sugar, the tune becomes a mini-anthem for anyone who’s felt frustrated at being powerless, and you’ll find yourself joining in on the chorus before you know it.
Kelly Hoppe takes center stage with his harmonica on a faithful rendition of Muddy Waters’s “Standing Around Crying” that will leave you short on Kleenex while “Still Waiting” attempts to dull the ache of its failed romance with the soothing tones of a bedtime lullaby. Yet it’s the epic grandeur of “Wild Ox Moan” that is arguably the album’s finest moment, as Johnson again adopts the role of the tireless wanderer setting off on a lengthy journey. As the music soars to the heavens, he croons, bellows, wails, and sighs his way through a vocal performance that is nothing short of remarkable, continuing to sing long after the last instrument has fallen silent: “I don’t want you to sit and cry now, woman/Your daddy’s coming on home.” Powerful stuff - you’ll be sorry if you miss it.
Amidst this heady stew of heartache and hurt, “AAA Ardvark Motel” is a puzzler. A short and snazzy ska instrumental (vaguely reminiscent of the mournful classic “I Fought The Law”), it seems better suited for a compilation by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones or the Brian Setzer Orchestra. Here, it amounts to little more than an upbeat interlude and was most likely an attempt to lighten the mood of the record, lest it choke on its own misery before the final track. No need, fellas - sometimes we like to drown in sorrow.
“How Many Times” is another she-done-me-wrong story with a mellow toe-tapping rhythm but unfortunately, there’s little else to get excited about. “Deliver Me” has Johnson doing a quiet falsetto above more reggae beats, yet it lacks spark and seems to drag on about a minute too long. The closing number has no such shortcomings, however. With its larger-than-life talk of men who don’t possess an ounce of sweetness, Medusa-like women you shouldn’t look in the eye, and a watchdog who could make Cerberus turn tail and run, “Sugar In My Coffee” harks back to the early days of the blues and to Robert Johnson in particular, himself no stranger to mythical hellhounds and devils. Despite the apparent sloppiness of the composition - the band members all sound as if they’re going in different directions - everything somehow holds together to end the album on a strong note.
Some songs are meant to be played on your day off with the sun shining overhead and a cool breeze blowing in your face, like “Hey Jude” or “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Others should be heard when the rain is soaking through your favorite sweater as you walk home alone after a nine-hour shift at a job you detest. The next time you find yourself in such a situation, give 500 Pounds a listen. It won’t necessarily make you feel any better, but sometimes a good cry is the best thing for you.
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