Petra Haden Sings The Who Sell Out - Review

Through many hours, pondering ways in which I could pay tribute to my favorite music, the notion of doing songs or whole albums a cappella has crossed this mind more than once. No, it’s not my invention. Bobby McFerrin is a genius at it. For me it was a natural extension of my own curiosity, especially given my propensity for mimicking people, instruments and sounds. I’ve probably come within minutes of booting my old Mac and pulling up Pro-Tools to attempt on my own what Petra Haden has ultimately achieved with naiveté, sexiness and grace. Another most essential component of this particular effort is the fact that a woman has with great aptitude and originality appropriated music that is inarguably oriented by and for those with a penis.

According to the liner notes for "Petra Haden Sings The Who Sell Out," a San Pedro California-based radio host, Mike Watt, gave Petra (his close friend and past collaborator) a Tascam 8 track recorder. He dedicated track number 8 to the original Who album for Petra to reference the music and lyrics. Furthermore Watt contends that Petra was not previously familiar with the album. The endearing richness and detail evident on this CD would render such an assertion of dubious legitimacy, were it not for her absolutely silly cases of mis-heard and misunderstood lyrics. While these little foul-ups are forgivable, they are about as idiosyncratically weird as is this homage in totality. They codify the gloriously innocent but widely pervasive syndrome of confused rock lyrics. It’s the “excuse me while I kiss this guy,” or “revved up like a douche you know the rowner in the night” type thing. In short, either Watt or Haden herself would have done well to reference the correct lyrics for these songs, which are widely available on the internet. I am mystified by such obvious blunders as “I can’t remember” being mistaken for “I danced with Linda,” in Maryanne With The Shaky Hands, other than the fact that both phrases share equivalence in syllables.

There are some jarring moments where the edits and transitions are sloppy and ill-attended to. Some clue to this peppering of neglect in production may lie in an interview Watt conducted with Petra on his web-based show. Petra comes off as an extremely casual and dispassionate artist; sort of a stoner for lack of a better term. No indictments. There is a genuine charm, albeit momentary distraction in all these snags of cogency and continuity; wrinkles which could’ve easily been remedied by allowing a fan to listen before the J-cards and discs were printed – yikes! But regardless, the confidence with which these songs are rendered, screw-ups and all, ultimately fuels the likeability of Ms. Haden, and this CD.

Petra’s ample vocal range is evident throughout the piece as she ambitiously employs complex and meticulous over-dubs and lots of funny babbling to achieve both the vocals and instrumentals of the Who classic. At times she employs an ethereal whispery call; while at others summons an almost dazed or brooding affectation, colored with chocolaty timbre. Her falsettos are sometimes hauntingly reminiscent of John Entwhistle’s fruitfully youthful voice on the original album. She fancies herself a talent of mimicry. At once she strives to perfectly imitate the precise rhythms present on The Who Sell Out with disarmingly cute and unabashedly, almost childish wow-wow-wow-ing and dubbi-da dubbi-da dubbi-da vocalizations. She has fun emulating the studio tricks (originally achieved with the now famous “twiddling knobs” as immortalized in the film *The Kids Are Alright) - resulting in the musical gossamer which Pete Townshend along with Who producer Kit Lambert undoubtedly spent days inventing back in 1967.

Characteristic of taking on a project of this size, are the inevitable and impossible-to-satisfy expectations and unforgiving ears infecting each seasoned Who fan. However one must neither underestimate nor dismiss this work as an imperfect copy of the Who album. The ages have seen manifold interpretations of classic music and art. It’s possible that Petra’s tour de force is the most appropriate testament to the understated and unsung importance of The Who Sell Out as part of that very particular genre of pop psychedelia. After all it was a neighborhood inhabited by the likes of Pink Floyd’s "Piper at The Gates of Dawn," The Beach Boys’ "Pet Sounds" and the inimitable 'Sgt. Pepper.' Yet for many of these now defunct bands applying their musical prowess as means to find their way around a world torn by social revolution, war, or commenting on the advent of commercialized rock, by contrast this was not The Who’s swan song. Rather it was a harbinger of such opuses as Tommy and Who’s Next. The sounds and spirit present on Sell Out are interminably and shortsightedly misunderstood through superficial critiques on the usage of actual commercials on the album. The truth is that The Who was practically ready to call it quits and came up with the idea of utilizing their sponsorship as a creative medium. The notion of painting an A.M. radio-like big top tent on vinyl was a tip of the cap to pirate radio on a dial otherwise monopolized by the British government. It was also a vehicle for some of Townshend’s finest writing. If you've never heard the original album, you are missing something great.


On a recent trip to the john I found myself, whistling the tune to Silas Stingy, and so it occurred to me in a veritable thought bubble appearing over the stall, "yes, The Who Sell Out done as multi-tracked whistles!!!" Back off man, it was my idea! I felt the same way after about 30 seconds watching the animated feature “Waking Life,” when I realized that someone else beat me to the goal of achieving a novel form of computer-aided rotoscoping on the big screen. I had spent several weeks on such tests, using the aforementioned old Mac a couple of years before I saw that film, and my results were strikingly similar. It’s okay AND I digress.

Make no mistake: Petra Haden has taken a casual challenge to copy a classic specimen of late ‘60’s rock eccentricity and re-ignited a carnivalesque journey, with results fresh, unexpected, and even tear-jerkingly fabulous.
-Chaim Singer-Frankes
2/24/05

It also occurred to me to test this idea of over-tracking my own voice while watching my brother Izzy lay down dubs on his Tascam. Ah the Tascam – that phenomenal device which has provided a path to easy multi-track recording, fortunately or not for both the able, *talented musical limners as well as those incompetent, know-nothings with a little too much time and spending money on their hands.

*Yes, Who fans, the twiddling which Pete discusses with Russell Hardy are those in which he and Kit engaged whilst recording “A Quick One,” however given the period, the spirit of such experimentation was certainly not limited to any particular album.

*Izzy is among the talented ones – pouring his heart with honesty and flare into his material.

Musky Wood

A sound blurries away, seemingly constant, as background noise. My brother used to get that look on his face - that look of earnesty, mixed with mischief, "that's the sound of the venus probe, he told me." Then he'd get a smirk. We laughed. It was funny because we were both thinking the same thing. He once told me, "some guy took a radio and mixed it with an old Philco TV and got signals from Nasa in his livingroom." I believed him. I wanted to believe that I could do that too.

I once sat with a beverage can, molding a battery to the top with some silly putty. I applied layer after layer of yellow paper glue, vigorously rubbing the glue into the putty with my index finger. I told my parents that I was building a robot which would do the dishes and my homework, and would make my mom's life easier. It was just the type of conflicted hope and despair present in my home. On the one hand I was fabricating a fantasy out of just stuff. On the other, my mom was harping about dishes and chores and I was saving the day by mashing a battery into a can with clay.

The sound in the background was one of the three or four shortwave radios in our home. As my dad finely tuned the dial, looking for Kol Yisrael (the voice of Israel), he passed over many strange and exotic frequencies. Pitters of noise, warping and waving sounds which seemed to emanate straight from Lost in Space - and a collage of languages, bits and pieces of news, story and music from a hundred nations. That's what my brother called the venus probe. When my dad's hand found the Israel broadcast, it was as though he had arrived home.

There was a big shortwave in my parent's bedroom - a Grundig, console stereo, with stainless steel push buttons. It opened in front to a record player and space for storing records - my parents shoved old photo albums inside it, instead. The flywheel tuning dial was heavy and plodding. I would throw the dial in one direction and watch the red needle skate across the band, backlit with small yellow light bulbs. I loved that stereo. Another was a portable, grey plastic radio which had AM, FM, two or three SW bands, and something called MB, which I was told was military band. When I played with that radio, I never heard anything on MB, even though I tried it every time I turned it on. It was like a ritual. I cannot adequately describe the sounds that come out of a shortwave radio. Electronic chirps, whirring, fluctuating notes - screaches, and the ever-present slapping sound. It sounded like a helicopter's blades in your kitchen, but slowed down. My mom would inevitably squeal, "oy, tachlish et zeh," (turn that down!) They stay with me today, enmeshed with the smell of decaying leaves, a chill in the air, the dread of homework languishing unfinished, and blue dusk over my street.

Restroom Review: Culver 12 Cinema, Culver City Ca.

Recently my wife and I enjoyed a very delicious meal at Annapura, a vegeterian Indian restaurant on Venice Boulevard. Usually I sample one of the more, shall we say unique beverages offered at these places, and that night I tried something, the name of which I can't recall. It was compellingly, I don't know, strange. It tasted like a mix between a rose blossom and a brand new cassette tape. I must say, I liked it. I sucked the thing down and didn't think much else of it for the balance of the evening. We rushed on to the theatre close by to catch a late showing of Pixar's The Incredibles. The film was wonderful, though I should add that it's too intense for the kiddies, so don't be fooled by cute aesthetics; this is a movie for adults. Anyhow, somewhere during the epilogue I began to have the oddest sensation in my gut. It was as if someone had implanted a methane gas spigot in my peretoneum and then proceeded to light the thing. Within no more than 45 seconds from the onset of this episode I broke out in a cold sweat I felt like I was going to explode - or die whichever came first. The crazy thing was that I simply didn't want to miss even one minute of this film in order to go to the bathroom, but yet I really felt an emergency of a sort I simply had not sensed at any time in my 38 years on this planet. It felt like nausea coupled with explosive farts and I simply thought I was going to lose it right there in my seat. I knew it was the beverage. Just remembering it gives me an urge to visit the can.

There are sadly few establishments, public or private which offer single room lavatories for guests and employees. Apparently a measure of efficiency in construction dictates the level of privacy and comfort that can be accorded to commode users. I must convey a kudos to the people who designed and constructed the Culver 12 Cinema, in Culver City California. The bathroom was one of the singularly clean, one-toilet, one sink lavatories I'd been to. It is similar to the bathroom in the 580 building in the DreamWorks Complex on the Universal lot, though the latter is a bit cleaner and has an aromatic hint of cedar. The cinema bathroom was fully tiled; a prerequisite in my opinion for anything to rate three bathroom tissue rolls or higher. It is absolutely spacious, appointed with chrome fixtures, as well as a Koala changing station for tots. Nothing of any high incident or interest happened in that bathroom, even given the level of emergent need I felt, but that had nothing to do with any issues of sanitation or privacy - both of which were really top notch.

Additional comments: Bullet style garbage can, somewhat overflowing (it was probably not emptied yet for that day). Pleasant smelling soap.