Settle down, Carlos
When I was a masturbating teenager (as opposed to a masturbating adult) I would spend many an hour locked in my room, "Linda Blair" style, obsessed with practicing on the tobacco brown Stratocaster copy made from rather exotic Schecter parts that my father had brought home from some fragrant east Los Angeles music shop.
I don't doubt that my tourist dad paid over the odds, but it was a rare and character filled instrument nonetheless, and it still sees the occassional work out in the studio.
Any spare hour after high school and all weekend I'd be plugging my guitar and effects into the parents' late 70s Hi-fi, which (conveniently enough) boasted two quarter-inch microphone jacks on its front panel - purpose built for Karaoke singing along with the radio or dual tape deck.
The drill would involve turning on some top 40 FM station or my favourite workout cassette (often Lou Reed's "Rock and Roll Animal" album or its sister work "Lou Reed Live"). I'd learn all the chords and solos, usually improvising my own lead lines . It was one endless, sweaty, hairy palmed, testosterone-squirting solo.
The trouble with Carlos Santana is that he never quite moved beyond that.
Not being a vocalist, the man feels compelled to spray his scent on every record, by interlacing his predictable jazz/blues licks throughout the entire work (you can almost hear him pulling that face, top lip over teeth). He'll usually announce his appearance in the first few bars and only leave the mix (kicking and screaming) in the inevitable, moaning fade out.
Of course he can play - but does he have to play so much? Just because your custom built Paul Reed Smith is worth more than most people spend on a new car, doesn't mean you can't give it a rest between verses.
The man is not without his merits - he boasts more Latin (and vanilla flavoured) Grammys than Gloria Estefan - and his badass 70s reworking of Buddy Holly's "Well alright" can still raise a smile. When he collarborates with others, the underlying songs (when you can hear them) often boast a cruisey west coast infectiousness.
But can you imagine being his record producer?
Producer:
"OK, Carlos, these are the ground rules, baby. You can play an opening riff of no more than, say 4 bars, one big solo in the middle - which may or may not bleed into the third verse - and just a little bit of impro as we fade out."
Carlos:
"I got a better idea - why dont I just play through the WHOLE DAMN SONG. That shit worked last time"
Producer:
"You da man, Carlos."
I don't doubt that my tourist dad paid over the odds, but it was a rare and character filled instrument nonetheless, and it still sees the occassional work out in the studio.
Any spare hour after high school and all weekend I'd be plugging my guitar and effects into the parents' late 70s Hi-fi, which (conveniently enough) boasted two quarter-inch microphone jacks on its front panel - purpose built for Karaoke singing along with the radio or dual tape deck.
The drill would involve turning on some top 40 FM station or my favourite workout cassette (often Lou Reed's "Rock and Roll Animal" album or its sister work "Lou Reed Live"). I'd learn all the chords and solos, usually improvising my own lead lines . It was one endless, sweaty, hairy palmed, testosterone-squirting solo.
The trouble with Carlos Santana is that he never quite moved beyond that.
Not being a vocalist, the man feels compelled to spray his scent on every record, by interlacing his predictable jazz/blues licks throughout the entire work (you can almost hear him pulling that face, top lip over teeth). He'll usually announce his appearance in the first few bars and only leave the mix (kicking and screaming) in the inevitable, moaning fade out.
Of course he can play - but does he have to play so much? Just because your custom built Paul Reed Smith is worth more than most people spend on a new car, doesn't mean you can't give it a rest between verses.
The man is not without his merits - he boasts more Latin (and vanilla flavoured) Grammys than Gloria Estefan - and his badass 70s reworking of Buddy Holly's "Well alright" can still raise a smile. When he collarborates with others, the underlying songs (when you can hear them) often boast a cruisey west coast infectiousness.
But can you imagine being his record producer?
Producer:
"OK, Carlos, these are the ground rules, baby. You can play an opening riff of no more than, say 4 bars, one big solo in the middle - which may or may not bleed into the third verse - and just a little bit of impro as we fade out."
Carlos:
"I got a better idea - why dont I just play through the WHOLE DAMN SONG. That shit worked last time"
Producer:
"You da man, Carlos."
posted by What Are Ya? at 3:54 PM
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