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Fresh Listen - Various Artists, From These Shores: Otherworldly Music and Far-Out Sounds from Hawai‘i (Aloha Got Soul, 2019)

(Some pieces of recorded music operate more like organisms than records. They live, they breathe, they reproduce. Fresh Listen is a periodic review of recently and not-so-recently released albums that crawl among us like radioactive spiders, gifting us with superpowers from their stingers.)

As Aloha Got Soul so meticulously documented in its first Hawai‘i-based song sampler, Aloha Got Soul - Soul, AOR & Disco in Hawai‘i, 1979-1985, the music scene within this particular archipelago has been far from homogenous, despite what the playlists of some contemporary radio stations would have one believe. But aside from a couple artists whose genre-bending synthesis inspired in the listener an island-style altered-consciousness (Nohelani Cypriano’s “O’ Kailua” and Brother Noland’s “Kawaihae,”) the sometimes folk-inflected soul and disco of the original compilation aspired to the values of the popular radio music of its day: love songs, mostly, musically sophisticated and carefully produced, all the raw bits cooked to a medium well-done. 

Released just last year, From These Shores: Otherworldly Music and Far-Out Sounds from Hawai‘i is the dark-magic B-side to Aloha Got Soul’s sunny A-side. An air of mystery surrounded the record when I first removed it from its sleeve--unlike its predecessor, the album lacked the exhaustively researched liner notes by label founder Roger Bong (though a rundown of the songs and artists can be found on the label’s website). Initially, the origins of this music and the artists who recorded it were completely beyond me, and with no backstory printed on the record sleeve, these disparate tunes (described by Roger as “softly-psychedelic cosmic folk and psych”) are catalysts for the listeners imagination, establishing a timeless living space, seconds in a moment no longer following one another linearly but absorbed into a single present. Everything on From These Shores sounds as though it could have been recorded 50 years ago, or just the other day in someone’s bedroom.

As it turns out, the time period the album covers is roughly parallel to the first compilation. Though parallel in time, the aesthetics of these two releases never quite intersect. Whereas the exacting musical capabilities of Aloha Got Soul artists Mike Lundy, or Aura, or Nova, or Greenwood seem developed for popular consumption, representative artists on From These Shores must have written and recorded exclusively under the spell of febrile imagination and obsession. These are determined songs that exist confidently unto themselves, less the result of trying to capture a scene or a genre than out of a basic joy of music making. In other words, though both Aloha Got Soul and From These Shores emerged in the rich musical wash of Seventies and Eighties Hawai‘i, the latter record must have originated in a weirder, more personal place. Each song is drastically different from the other, though all interact electrically toward composition of the whole. What is classified as “psychedelic” is often and overused misnomer for what is sonically bent, in a pleasing way, or lyrically oblique, or simply, in comparison with the mainstream, plain weird. The weirdos, as I’ve said before, are for me.

The synth-conjured waves of Eddie Suzuki’s “High Tide” (echoed in later tracks by Mofoya and Harry Sonoda) kick off From These Shores with a light, easy- going melody evocative of Bobby Womack’s “Breezin,’” The electronic keyboard lick as distinctive as what George Benson or Gabor Szabo milked from their electric guitars. The melody is so natural that the synthesizer seems almost to sing; unfortunately, all this careless love is undercut by a busier-than-it-needs-to-be bassline. (It must have been recorded by a guitar player, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Eddie Suzuki himself). Even though the bass is a bit overextended, it gives the record less-polished, homespun, one-man auteur quality.

The lyrics of Richard Reb’ll’s “Reb’ll Message,” as well as the turgidity in which they are intoned, casts the song as a near-parody, a Dr. Demento-style dig at the silliness inherent in love songs, especially those that aim at a hippie-dippie type of universality. In his notes about the album, Roger Bong reveals that Reb’ll’s vocals were a last minute act of desperation--having failed to secure another singer to serve as vessel for his gobbledy gook, Reb’ll lay down the voice track himself, magnifying his vocal limitations in the process. (Though I fail to grasp how any singer could have shaped a memorable melody around his words). At the very least, Reb’ll makes clear that the “love is blind” metaphors are far past their date of expiration.

Fortunately, Roger revives Reb’ll’s eccentric and exciting arrangement as the instrumental “Reb’ll Echo” in a later track: an Ennio Morricone acid jam, equal parts Bar-Kays, “Lady Jane” -era Rolling Stones, and Japanese garage rock.

Agitprop, no matter how artfully conveyed, is still agitprop: a fading snapshot of passing political thought. When does agitprop elevate to the level of Art? When Burgess and Brooks sing “No man, no / it doesn’t have to be / the word can be made / nuclear free” on “Revelation,” they successfully make the case that agitprop is, indeed, not Art. Even John Lennon made serious missteps when he channeled his songwriting into sloganeering.

As a warning about the weaponization of nuclear energy leading to a Biblical Apocalypse, “Revelation” undermines its own message in terms of the prophecy it references. According to the final book of the Bible, Revelation has already been foretold, and whether by nuclear bombs or the collapse of the the ecosystem, it will come. Burgess and Brooks, in holier-than-thou mode, may appeal to the Lord, but they are under the misapprehension that any kind of late-day Enlightenment will prevent the earthly horrors of the end times. The robotic and passionless execution of the song, despite its interesting chord changes, doesn’t do the message any favors.

The sound of waves carries forward from Eddie Suzuki’s “High Tide” to Mofoya’s “Magic Sands” and Harry Sonoda’s “Waves,” each track capturing a distinct psychic rendering of this godly natural phenomenon in contrast to the other. Whereas Mofoya’s gentle instrumental evokes sunlight warm upon the eyelids of a prostrate at the edge of a whispering tide, “Waves,” an impressionistic, electronic mini-symphony, powerfully proposes that the rolling majesty of the ocean is beyond the logic of human imagination. As indifferently destructive as they are soothing to the ear and spirit, waves will push forward until the end of time.

Whereas “Soul Catcher,” by the intriguingly named Baha’i group East of Midnight, suggests that a supreme and irrational consciousness may reveal itself in a humble gospel-folk song. Whether East of Midnight are successful in summoning a higher power through “Soul Catcher” is up for debate, but the group, who sing and play with the purity of talent show contenders at the local church, indeed conjure a deep sense of mystery in their haunting performance. Their agenda seems not to proselytize, but only to sing themselves closer to an inexpressible feeling.

There is little to say about “Kaimu Sun” except that it is too self-consciously precious, leaning hard into New Age signifiers in an attempt to manufacture tranquility. “Say You’ll Be With Me” is folk-rock of the the variety perfected by other other Hawai‘i bands, (Country Comfort, for one), but comes across as far less compelling. 

No album is programmed perfectly, though each song reveals its value in relation to the others. In the context of compilation records, the role of lesser or middling tracks is to fuel the excellence of stronger pieces, so they achieve a critical mass in the ears of the listener. One of the stand-out tracks of From These Shores is “Righteous Morning,” beginning as an organ-drenched, Doors-ish pop-waltz then, via a series of time signature changes, manifesting into a muddy recreation of of the best of Sixties garage rock, the electric instruments all stacked on top of one another for maximum impact. Like a somewhat tranquilized Felix Cavaliere, Graham Broad’s vocals grow increasingly desperate over the course of the extended coda until the sun reveals that enlightenment exists in a form more elevated than this mortal coil.

A few weeks ago, while helping a friend move furniture while he was changing apartments, we got into a brief conversation about why it would be unwise to ever leave Hawai‘i, even though everything is more expensive, the traffic is an overarching nightmare that transcends time distinctions, and our presence no doubt exploits the disenfranchisement of the Native people from their island. Living here is complicated, and requires an awareness of one’s role in a defined ecosystem of peoples and practices. “In Hawai‘i” is an example of the “Hawai’i no ka oi” that many of us feel while trying to absorb the complexity; there is no place better, but we must now our place. 

Because of its calculated accessibility, and aspirations toward light-weight C & K material, Lyle K’ang’s “How Many Times” is a puzzling choice for inclusion on From These Shores. It efficiently functions as a meaningless facsimile of a song that one would expect to hear on Seventies AM radio: “You got to be movin’ because you’re movin’ on / maybe you love me / and that’s the truth.”

Fresh Listen - Various Artists, Aloha Got Soul: Soul, AOR & Disco in Hawaii 1979-1985 (Strut Records, 2016)

(Some pieces of recorded music operate more like organisms than records. They live, they breathe, they reproduce. Fresh Listen is a periodic review of recently and not-so-recently released albums that crawl among us like radioactive spiders, gifting us with superpowers from their stingers.)

alohagotsoul We met Dale Senaga for lunch on Friday and surprised him with a 7” he hadn’t seen in decades: Far East Co., the band he had during his teenage years — and a precursor to Liz Damon’s Orient Express. Their first gig was at The World of Suzie Wong on 1877 Kalakaua Ave — later the Wave Waikiki, which closed its doors in 2006, its former location now home to a 35-story luxury condominium.

We mostly talked about Aiko, though, and I realized that the four year anniversary of her passing will arrive next Sunday. (When we first reached out to Dale for licensing in 2014, we had no idea Aiko had died one week prior.)