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May 19, 2008

Numerology: 48, Ours

4:48 a.m. – the time most suicides are purported to take place. Said to be the time of night when people suffering from mental disorders report feeling very clear and cold, while those outside perceive them to be in their deepest delirium.

Tindersticks - "4.48 Psychosis"

Sarah Kane’s 4.48 Psychosis, what one theater critic called a 75-minute suicide note, was not performed in the playwright’s lifetime. Kane’s suicide in Feb. ’99 ensured that. The lyrics of the Tindersticks song “4:48 Psychosis” come straight from the play—which has no characters and no stage directions—and the song fulfills its promise of a truly bad trip. It begins with the question—What do you offer?—and the recitation of a somehow ominous-sounding sequence of random numbers, before a swirling, “Venus in Furs”-grade drone—replete with viola shrieks—kicks in, and Stuart Staples duskily intones Kane’s bleak words:

At 4:48/When sanity visits

For one hour and twelve minutes I am in my right mind

When it has passed I shall be gone again

But take heart: Hours, not death, are the primary concern of the vast majority of 48 songs—the winning track included—and for that we can all be grateful. Three 6 Mafia (“48 Hours to Respond”), Ladyhawk (“48 Hours”)—a Vancouver band that likens its sound to “cashmere underwear,” and the prolific guitar shredder known to the world as Buckethead (“48 Hours to Go”) have all mined the 48-hour angle. Toss in Magda—the Polish-born, American-raised, Berlin-based DJ, whose “48 Hour Crack in Your Bass” features a bass line so thick and pulchritudinous you can practically smell pancakes—along with the demented blues stomp of “Letnik 48” by Slovenian rock-scene stalwart, Tomaz Domicelj, and you have the potential for a mix-tape that will perplex all of your friends.

Tomaz Domicelj - "Letnik 48"

I realize that’s a lot to take in, so let’s take a deep breath and imagine a time before 48 came to be viewed principally as the sum of the hours contained in two days. Yes, Virginia, there was a time when 48 had a far different connotation. (Indeed, you are correct in pointing out that 48 the atomic number of cadmium—but that’s not it.) For most of the first half of the 20th century, 48 signified the number of states in the U.S.A. When you referred to “the 48,” people assumed you meant it in the same sense as this line from “Let’s Get Away From it All,” the pop standard Sinatra made famous:

We’ll travel ‘round from town to town/We'll visit ev’ry state,

And I’ll repeat, “I love you, sweet”/In all the forty-eight.

The great musical iconoclast Spike Jones, who added gargling, whistles, and a large dose of nuttiness to his versions of pop standards and classical works, recorded a surprisingly unfunny number called “Forty-Eight Reasons Why.” (Not to be confused with “48 Reasons” by first-wave oi band Red London). The Jones song lays out 48 reasons to heed the call of Uncle Sam (one state = one reason) and ends with a caffeinated recitation of state names, amid bugle riffs and the sound of marching feet. It sounds heavy-handed and forced, no doubt, but so ingrained at the time was the concept of “the 48” that America’s favorite red-haired puppet, Howdy Doody, sported 48 patriotic freckles on his lacquered wooden cheeks. The Gourds, roots rockers from Austin, TX, recently revisited this connotation in “Lower 48” and managed to avoid sounding jingoistic; amazing what a minor key and lyrics like “Married my cousin up in Arkansas/Married two more when I got to Utah” will do for you.

A more poetic treatment comes from celebrated guitarist John Renbourn, whose “Forty-Eight” features bells, primitive percussion, and a bluesy workout, bracketed by a sublime conversation between guitar and glockenspiel. “48 Hour Drive (Boston)” by Baltic Fleet, is a slowly unfolding flower, very much like Sigur Ros but without anything identifiably Icelandic (e.g., words sung in Icelandic). But if that sounds too meditative, try “Bomba ‘48” by the ska-punk Texas outfit known as Los Skarnales. Or if for some reason you want to see what happens when a brainy, willfully obtuse brother-sister team writes a song that inadvertently makes the simplicity and lack of pretension of Los Skarnales seem like the very essence of all that is good in the world, check out “Forty-Eight Twenty-Three Twenty-Second Street” by Fiery Furnaces. And if you are in the mood to ponder whether Sunny Day Real Estate was a great, seminal band or merely a decent one that traded in the soft-loud/soft-loud structure and temper-tantrum vocals associated with the grunge aesthetic—check out “48” from “the pink album.”

The James Gang’s “Funk #48” features the same kind of crunchy Joe Walsh guitar licks that make “Funk #49,” which followed a year later, so recognizable. “Funk #49” is clearly the superior song—stronger melody, more interesting vocal flavor—but “48” is no slouch. The band has an intuitive grasp of the looseness : tightness ratio that makes a rock trio such an ideal vehicle to deliver the goods. In the wake of the Who, Jimi Hendrix Experience and Cream, the power trio was a popular formation. The James Gang—whom Pete Townshend himself recruited to open up for the Who on a 1970 British tour, were one of the best. What they lacked in pinup quality they made up for in talent (but you know how far that will get you in rock.) The worst thing about the boom in power trios was that it helped usher in an era of exceedingly bland rock-band names: West, Bruce & Laing; Beck, Bogert Appice—suddenly it was cool to sound like a law firm. You even had power duos (see: Whitford-St. Holmes). Finally, the point became to choose the most boring name you could possibly think of. What else could explain the success of Hamilton, Joe Frank & Reynolds? Even the post-Graham Nash Hollies couldn’t resist calling a late-period LP Clarke, Hicks, Sylvester, Calvert and Elliot (1977). At that point, with the British Invasion a hazy memory and five years since “He Aint Heavy (He’s My Brother”), I guess the Hollies were just looking to see if anything would stick—be it a couple of disco tracks or what looks on paper to be a nakedly bad move: an attempt at hard rock, called “48 Hour Parole.” (See? There was a point to that digression.) If that sounds like a good idea to you, it’s available on Amazon, for a handsome sum. Convince me it’s an overlooked gem and you’ll be handsomely rewarded.

Suzi Quatro - "48 Crash"

Suzi Quatro - "48 Crash"

By 1973, as the power trio rebellion was being quelled by an army of singer-songwriters in patched denims, the English glam scene took flight, and so did the career of Suzi Quatro. With “Can the Can,” her second single, she hit no. 1 on the British charts, and came through with a few more strong singles penned by the ace songwriting team of Chinn/Chapman. One of them was “48 Crash,” a song about reaching the age of 48 and feeling shitty about it, which went to no. 3. While the youth of today might know her solely for her six-episode stint as Leather Tuscadero on Happy Days, Quatro enjoyed years of success in the UK and Australia before finally breaking through in the U.S with “Stumblin’ In,” a peak moment in sunshine pop from 1978. A few more UK chartings followed, but that was the extent of her success in her native land. Before you weep for Suzi, consider that she has sold more than 45 million records in her lifetime, and more records in Australia than the Beatles. What that says about the land Down Under I’ll leave to Men at Work to write a song about. Whether the Detroit native was a proto-riot grrl I will leave to the historians. But all things being equal, if “48 Crash” achieved the high camp of the Runaways’ “Cherry Bomb,” it just might be sitting on top of this list.

Instead, we have “48 Hours” by the Clash, a song that was excised, along with two others, from the U.S. release of the band’s self-titled debut. The move pissed off the Clash, but I have to think we Americans won out—I mean, “Complete Control” alone is worth the three that got cut, to say nothing of “Hammersmith Palais” and “I Fought the Law,” which we also got. So I admit it: “48 Hours” is not an essential Clash song. Does that mean that even a non-essential Clash song beats the songs gathered here, including Suzi Quatro, in a walk? My answer is a Joe Strummer-snarled “fuck yeh!” The record that introduced the Clash was rife with elbow-throwing lyrics—fun didn’t seem to rate high on their list. But “48 Hours” comes off as a rare celebration of pleasure by a band for whom anger and boredom were the critical emotions of their explosive infancy. It’s gruff and tight: two verses, two choruses, and a skronky guitar break—that’s it. Leave it to the Clash to do “48 Hours” in a minute and a half.

the Clash - "48 Hours"

Numerology is our pal Dave's ill advised quest to find the definitive song for every number from one to a hundred. It's starting to creep everybody out.

Previously: No. 1, 2-4, 5-7, 7 (counterpoint), 8, 9, 10/11, 12/13. 13 (counterpoint), 14/15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26/27, 28 , 29 , 30, 30 (counterpoint), 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46 , 47

Posted by David Klein at May 19, 2008 10:13 AM

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Posted by: Randall Monty at May 19, 2008 10:57 AM

Posted by: david at May 19, 2008 01:58 PM

Posted by: jonny at May 28, 2008 02:17 PM

Posted by: david at May 28, 2008 03:24 PM

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