FogBlueInSanFran
Well-Known Member
The Album Review Club – Week #93
The Tubes – The Tubes (1975)
Selected by FogBlueInSanFran
I know, I know . . . this is ridiculous.
“The Tubes” seems like the soundtrack to some failed 70s glam rock musical about drug addicts, or maybe “Tommy” were it done by some freakish combination of Kiss, Blood Sweat & Tears and the London Symphony Orchestra.
But this record means a lot to me.
That’s because despite San Francisco’s rich musical tradition, no other album reminds me so much of home.
The Tubes are San Francisco through and through. I’ve run into Fee Waybill at a Benihana, Roger Steen at a baseball game and Re Styles (not in the band yet on this record, but those are her hands on the cover) shopping at a supermarket over the course of my life.
For all its drawbacks – past, current and future – San Francisco is still a remarkably diverse city, unique in America save for maybe New York, in the variety of its neighborhoods, architecture, people, social status, and (as those of you who’ve been here know) climate.
Like the New York-based Beastie Boys’ “Paul’s Boutique”, “The Tubes” is a celebration of all of that, but couched in the 70s, when sex, drugs and rock and roll – all done to excess – were the bywords of white middle/upper-class culture here.
This record is unapologetically colo(u)rful, loud, brash, smutty, and filled with every instrument known to humankind – dozens of them. Is it pop? Rock? Prog? Big band? Metal? Show tunes? Punk? It’s a combination of all these.
I expect some of you to hate this, but I’m doubtful any of you will be bored. If you dislike a tune, skip to the next, because it will be different, I assure you. In fact, in many of these songs, you can simply wait one minute, and then the tempo and instrumentation will shift, radically so in some cases.
The thing is, as loony as The Tubes are, they can write and they can play. Certainly this record is produced in balls-to-the-wall fashion (by Al Kooper no less), but keep an ear out some really talented musicians showing off – especially the drummer, Prairie L’Emprere Prince (his real name), whose crazed fills are everywhere.
To me each of the eight songs offers something funny, rousing, celebratory, hooky and most definitely over-the-top. I do tend to love records that don’t take themselves seriously, and this one (and this band) lead a lot of other artists in that regard. From the opener “Up From The Deep”:
“Listen to our single / Watch how they play it / Tell me how you want it / That's how I'll have our guitar player, Roger Steen, play it / Listen to him / [guitar riff] . . . And all my boys will play along / Even if they don’t like the song.”
See? Ridiculous.
From there we have “Haloes”, and if you’ve ever driven the 101 freeway and exited the Rainbow Tunnel (now named after Robin Williams) in Marin County as the best view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge spills before you on a fogless day with the ending guitar solo playing at top volume, you’ll come as close to a spiritual high as you can.
Things slow down with “Space Baby” and then a completely random cover of Mexican standard “Malaguena Salerosa” (covered by over 200 bands if you believe Wikipedia).
Side two amps up the guitar with “Mondo Bondage” (about exactly what you think it is) before segueing into an all time-70s classic “What Do Want From Life?”(“What do you want from life? / To try and be happy / While you do the nasty things you must”). If you want a time machine to observe 1970s American consumerism in all its glory, this is for you.
Next we have the unabashedly sexist “Boy Crazy” (also about exactly what you think it is) before we get to the piece de resistance, and one of my favo(u)rite songs of all time.
“White Punks On Dope” – affectionately known to all as “WPOD” – is basically San Francisco’s version of “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Later covered by Motley Crue (yuuuucccckkkk), this is a song about rich drug addicts on the edge of suicide, and it’s as close to pre-punk as 1975 got. Of course, like everything else here, it crosses the silliness border. To wit:
“All the dudes are livin’ in the ghetto / But born in Pacific Heights don’t seem much bett-ooooo”.
See? Ridiculous. Again.
From the chatter in Japanese that opens and closes it to the full-speed name-checking of a bunch of 70s American celebrities, kinck-knacks and automobiles; from the mariachi cover to the punk/metal/arena rock anthem; from the periodically lumbering tempos morphing into insane firework-filled solos, “The Tubes” will always be one of my favo(u)rite records.
BECAUSE it’s totally ridiculous. Just like my home town.
The Tubes – The Tubes (1975)
Selected by FogBlueInSanFran
I know, I know . . . this is ridiculous.
“The Tubes” seems like the soundtrack to some failed 70s glam rock musical about drug addicts, or maybe “Tommy” were it done by some freakish combination of Kiss, Blood Sweat & Tears and the London Symphony Orchestra.
But this record means a lot to me.
That’s because despite San Francisco’s rich musical tradition, no other album reminds me so much of home.
The Tubes are San Francisco through and through. I’ve run into Fee Waybill at a Benihana, Roger Steen at a baseball game and Re Styles (not in the band yet on this record, but those are her hands on the cover) shopping at a supermarket over the course of my life.
For all its drawbacks – past, current and future – San Francisco is still a remarkably diverse city, unique in America save for maybe New York, in the variety of its neighborhoods, architecture, people, social status, and (as those of you who’ve been here know) climate.
Like the New York-based Beastie Boys’ “Paul’s Boutique”, “The Tubes” is a celebration of all of that, but couched in the 70s, when sex, drugs and rock and roll – all done to excess – were the bywords of white middle/upper-class culture here.
This record is unapologetically colo(u)rful, loud, brash, smutty, and filled with every instrument known to humankind – dozens of them. Is it pop? Rock? Prog? Big band? Metal? Show tunes? Punk? It’s a combination of all these.
I expect some of you to hate this, but I’m doubtful any of you will be bored. If you dislike a tune, skip to the next, because it will be different, I assure you. In fact, in many of these songs, you can simply wait one minute, and then the tempo and instrumentation will shift, radically so in some cases.
The thing is, as loony as The Tubes are, they can write and they can play. Certainly this record is produced in balls-to-the-wall fashion (by Al Kooper no less), but keep an ear out some really talented musicians showing off – especially the drummer, Prairie L’Emprere Prince (his real name), whose crazed fills are everywhere.
To me each of the eight songs offers something funny, rousing, celebratory, hooky and most definitely over-the-top. I do tend to love records that don’t take themselves seriously, and this one (and this band) lead a lot of other artists in that regard. From the opener “Up From The Deep”:
“Listen to our single / Watch how they play it / Tell me how you want it / That's how I'll have our guitar player, Roger Steen, play it / Listen to him / [guitar riff] . . . And all my boys will play along / Even if they don’t like the song.”
See? Ridiculous.
From there we have “Haloes”, and if you’ve ever driven the 101 freeway and exited the Rainbow Tunnel (now named after Robin Williams) in Marin County as the best view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge spills before you on a fogless day with the ending guitar solo playing at top volume, you’ll come as close to a spiritual high as you can.
Things slow down with “Space Baby” and then a completely random cover of Mexican standard “Malaguena Salerosa” (covered by over 200 bands if you believe Wikipedia).
Side two amps up the guitar with “Mondo Bondage” (about exactly what you think it is) before segueing into an all time-70s classic “What Do Want From Life?”(“What do you want from life? / To try and be happy / While you do the nasty things you must”). If you want a time machine to observe 1970s American consumerism in all its glory, this is for you.
Next we have the unabashedly sexist “Boy Crazy” (also about exactly what you think it is) before we get to the piece de resistance, and one of my favo(u)rite songs of all time.
“White Punks On Dope” – affectionately known to all as “WPOD” – is basically San Francisco’s version of “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Later covered by Motley Crue (yuuuucccckkkk), this is a song about rich drug addicts on the edge of suicide, and it’s as close to pre-punk as 1975 got. Of course, like everything else here, it crosses the silliness border. To wit:
“All the dudes are livin’ in the ghetto / But born in Pacific Heights don’t seem much bett-ooooo”.
See? Ridiculous. Again.
From the chatter in Japanese that opens and closes it to the full-speed name-checking of a bunch of 70s American celebrities, kinck-knacks and automobiles; from the mariachi cover to the punk/metal/arena rock anthem; from the periodically lumbering tempos morphing into insane firework-filled solos, “The Tubes” will always be one of my favo(u)rite records.
BECAUSE it’s totally ridiculous. Just like my home town.
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