in december of 2008, my parents asked me what i wanted for a christmas gift. since i hadn't given anything of that sort a moment of thought, i used the recent economical crisis as an excuse to simply ask for the technics entertainment system that's been sitting in their living room, unused since the birth of the bose iPod dock. it came complete with a DC servo turntable, two-channel stereo equalizer (that doesn't exactly work), and a dual cassette player and recorder. my father informed me that there are at least 200 LPs floating around in the attic. i've found about 50 of them so far.
jerry says buddy miles was a session drummer, one of no particular fame. he said buddy did some spectacular sets, particularly with the beatles. my research found no evidence of such claims. he was, however, a pretty popular jam drummer. his played in electric flag with mike bloomfield, the short-lived band of gypsies with jimi hendrix, and later with carlos santana (in the late 80s, when santana was 35x less cool, but 100x less a poppy sell-out).
i picked this out the crate without ever having heard of buddy miles. looking at the jacket, i think it's pretty obvious to figure out what intrigued me. look. it's a fat dude with an afro, sitting behind a drum set with an american flag detail job. plus, he's straight grilling you. this guy was obviously the most gangster-looking mother fucker of 60s rock. try to deny it. you'd be out out of your mind.
the thing i love about them changes, buddy's third album and first after the band of gypsies experience, is that it's obviously not gangster, in any which way. sure, there are elements of hard rock sprinkled her and there throughout it, but this is r&b. soul. funk. buddy and his band take a journey across 60s pop, and they make every stop along the way. it opens with the title track, which was written for band of gypsies. wally rossunolo absolutely slays the hendrix-esque opening riff, and miles teams up with billy cox to deliver a flawless baseline. miles goes to town with his vocal range, and the dude can sing. this jam is funky as shit: if you hear it, you're dancing.
buddy's voice is pretty spot on. he kind of reminds me of a stevie wonder with a sore throat. he hits notes you don't expect a drummer to hit. he covers gary allman's "dreams" with such soul that it's almost unrecognizable. he hits notes he shouldn't hit and starts basslines that don't sound possible for an allman brothers song.
the album is, through and through, just solid. it's one of those records that once you know, you fiend for it every time you're sitting around in silence. you want to invite all your friends over so they can dance around to "them changes," day in and day out.
looking out my window one morning, i caught a homeless person in a stained brown blazer stifling through our recyclable bin. i couldn't have been older than 9 or 10. he held an industrial-sized trash bag over his shoulder. it was stuffed with empty cans and probably two times the size of his torso. i tapped my fist on the window to shoo him away, like he was raccoon. he looked up at me with tired eyes and slowly moved to our neighbor's can.
