So It Goes 2023, 4: Burt Bacharach In Memoriam

In Rotation: Bob Stanley/Pete Wiggs Present Winter of Discontent, Yo La Tengo, Huey "Piano" Smith

In Memoriam 

Burt Bacharach (1928-2023)

Burt Bacharach's songbook is so vast it winds up lending itself to a bullet-point list of highlights. After experiencing early success as a Brill Building songwriter, he and lyricist Hal David hit their stride once they started composing elegant uptown pop for Dionne Warwick in the early 1960s. A dizzying number of modern pop standards followed over the next few years, a glorious run culminating with the pair winning the Academy Award for Best Original Song for "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head." Their hot streak cooled as soon as the 1970s dawned. Bacharach It was didn't have another hit until 1981, when he took home a second Oscar for co-writing "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)," an achievement somewhat overshadowed by "That's What Friends Are For"—a song Rod Stewart cut for Ron Howard's Night Shift—became a number one hit when Warwick, Elton John, Gladys Knight, and Stevie Wonder recorded it as a charity single for an AIDS research. Bacharach's comeback continued when Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald took "On My Own" to the top of the charts but that was roughly the last time he had his focus on contemporary music. When he had his revival in the 1990s—a re-emergence spearheaded by a collaboration with Elvis Costello, which led to a cameo in the second Austin Powers movie—he was happily picking up where he left things in 1969.

What such stats and achievements do not convey is how omnipresent Bacharach was throughout his career. Hits and accolades may have been scarce in the 1970s but that could've been because he turned his attention to attempting to establish himself as a recording artist, an ambition hampered by his limited, almost conversational, vocal range. His piano playing was more expressive, capturing the easy grace of his melodies. Those melodies proved to be quite resilient, holding their shape even after they were stretched and reconfigured in a number of styles—which they continually were throughout the 1960s and 1970s. It's difficult to convey just how frequently Bacharach/David compositions were covered during this era. Pop singers of all stripes turned to Bacharach, garage bands roughed up the pretty tunes, jazz musicians used the melodies as vehicles for funky vamps. Pick any half-forgotten LP from 1964 through 1974 and there's a good chance you'll find a Bacharach/David song. Maybe the arrangements will be slightly stiff or corny but those gorgeous melodies still shine. 

It's possible to get a sense of this oversized footprint through modern digital delivery thanks to websites and streaming services that will list every cover of a particular title. Something about seeing an endless list of various versions of "I Say A Little Prayer" has an odd way of reducing its stature to a series of statistics: they're not gems tucked away on the B-side, they're part of the clutter. Noise wasn't part of Bacharach's vernacular. Easy elegance was his metier, a trait that alternately made his work seem sophisticated and soporific depending on the interpreter or arrangement. Plenty of Bacharach covers get the blend out of balance but there's a pleasure to be heard in these misbegotten versions, partially because hearing a variety of artists tackle the same song gives us a sense of sharing a similar musical language. Maybe the song doesn't quite remain the same when the "I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself" is turned into loud, tortured pleas by either Elvis Costello or the White Stripes yet those versions not only seem in dialogue with each other but with the Dionne Warwick and Dusty Springfield versions. That's a rarity in pop music. 

In Rotation

Bob Stanley/Pete Wiggs Present Winter of Discontent (2023)

I'd be lying if I said I was familiar with most of the music on Bob Stanley/Pete Wiggs Present Winter of Discontent, a collection of UK DIY punk made in the wake of the first wave of punk. Discovery is part of its appeal. The other part is how this collection of skittish, noisy rock is hookier and livelier upends a lot of the calcified conventional wisdom surrounding post-punk: much of this might be misanthropic but it's also fun.

Yo La Tengo—This Stupid World (2023)

I never spend enough time with new Yo La Tengo albums to be able to differentiate nuances between the records so I'll just concede that as it's playing This Stupid World sounds like it belongs among their top-tier records…but if I put on We Have Amnesia Sometimes I'd probably say the same things. Maybe I have amnesia sometimes. 

Smith—A Group Called Smith (1969)

I've had Smith's slinky, soulful revision of "Baby It's You" in my head since learning of Burt Bacharach's passing, so I sought out A Group Called Smith, their 1969 debut and wound up being disappointed that most of it is hamfisted and hammy hippie-rock sung by some dude in the band. Kind of a drag.

Huey “Piano” Smith—This Is…Huey Piano Smith (1998 compilation)

Listening to Huey "Piano" Smith after his death this week, it strikes me that his New Orleans R&B sounds boisterous in a way Fats Domino or Smiley Lewis doesn't: it's not so much about the easy roll of the rhythms. I chalk it up to the presence of the Clowns: with the call and response vocals, showcased so well on "Don't You Just Know It," they help Huey "Piano" Smith seem like the ringleader of a raucous party. 

Zach Bryan—Elisabeth (2020)

Nice guy, seems sincere too, wears his heart on his sleeve at least. This early record emphasizes how he hits his targets too squarely. There's no mystery to him whereas I have never been able to figure out Evan Felker, the singer/songwriter Bryan so clearly reveres.

John Cale—Mercy (2023)

Still puzzling out why portions of this remind me of 1990s Todd Rundgren.