Having lost so many significant musical figures in such a short span of time, whether to covid or other causes, hasn’t exactly helped slow the playlist parade. Kenny Rogers, Bill Withers, the great Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne and so many other things — they all merit playlists of their own. As does, of course, the singular John Prine, whose deceptively simple genius and lasting importance still isn’t as widely felt or recognized as it ought to be. Don’t be surprised if an entire side of a future LCKDWN20 double-LP is devoted to a personal Prine Top 5.
Yet, much as I will continue to mourn his loss too, the unnecessary death of the past week that has hurt my heart the most is that of Hal Willner, an utterly unique talent who, like Schlesinger, was an offbeat hero of mine and legions more. Whereas Schlesinger, a marvelously gifted songwriter with an uncanny knack for carving gems out of well-worn idioms, remains proof that one can steadily forge a path to music-legend status without ever being a star or even a recognizable face, Willner’s career as a producer/conceptualizer was, to me, a uniquely fractured ideal I’d give most everything to enjoy for just a month. He requires an introduction.
What did he do exactly? It isn’t so easy to explain. I’d suggest looking up one of several appreciations written about him shortly after his passing on April 7, a day after turning 64; Variety had a solid one. You’re also apt to see him pop up on Saturday Night Live specials, as he was longtime music director for that comedy mainstay. But first and foremost you could, and should, rightly consider him godfather of the modern tribute album.
Covers collections had existed for decades, spanning from Sinatra to the Supremes, but Willner’s ‘80s creations — Amarcord Nino Rota (1981), That’s the Way I Feel Now: A Tribute to Thelonious Monk (1984), Lost in the Stars: The Music of Kurt Weill (1985) and, especially, Stay Awake: Various Interpretations of Music from Vintage Disney Films (1988) — set a new gold standard. Random assortments hurriedly compiled under a tattered thematic umbrella (looking at you, other Disney tributes) or as mish-mash soundtrack fodder (Honeymoon in Vegas’s Elvis remakes and Me, Myself & Irene’s Steely Dan-heavy hodgepodge spring to mind) were all well and good. Hal Willner’s productions, though … sprawling sets that were consistently intriguing and often bewildering … those were one-of-a-kind experiences. Maybe they didn’t all resonate immediately; surely some teemed with highlights more than others. But even at their most challenging they still took your imagination to less-traveled places and enabled unusual musical/mental connections. They were as theatrical and cinematic as their source material, yet as earthy and roots-raw as the best Americana. Above all, they sounded like no one else’s recordings. No matter how many artists had a hand in the mosaic, the finished project still resembled something only Hal Willner could have conjured.
Logically, it took no more than 15 minutes of contemplating which Willner-produced track to put on a playlist for me to realize my appreciation of him could never be so limited. The only way to properly pay tribute to Hal Willner is to attempt something, well, very Hal Willnerish. Nothing less would convey the breadth of his particular, peculiar artistry, the scale and scope of his productions, nor the number of wonderfully-weird weddings of musician and material he’s officiated. HIs discography can seem curiously small until you realize just how much sterling bounty is packed into, say, his two sets of pirate ballads and sea chanteys, Rogue’s Gallery (2006) and Son of Rogue’s Gallery (2013). Or his other ’06 compendium, The Harry Smith Project: Anthology of American Folk Music Revisited, a trove of nuggets culled from marathon shows in London and Brooklyn (both in 1999) and at UCLA’s Royce Hall in 2001. I was at that last one and … ah shit, I JUST realized I forgot to include Steve Earle’s version of Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Prison Cell Blues,” which sure says plenty in relation to what’s happening to the country’s inmates during our current crisis.
Seriously, if you think I’m overdoing it with these two behemoth playlists, please know I’ve only scraped off tasty shavings from the tip of Willner’s iceberg. If you take to what you hear like a duck to water, there’s loads more worth discovering — including stacks o’ tracks I wish were on Spotify so I could have considered them. Stan Ridgway’s handling of “The Cannon Song” from Weill’s Threepenny Opera would have been prominent, though I think I’d still favor Nick Cave’s menacing “Mack the Knife,” from 1995’s September Songs, over Sting’s more austere rendition from Lost in the Stars.
Mr. Cave appears more than once within these 55 performances (really 60 if you count discrete songs within the Stay Awake medleys), as do several other members of Willner’s long-running mutual admiration society: Lou Reed, Tom Waits, Bono, Elvis Costello, Rufus Wainwright, Jarvis Cocker of Pulp, the writers William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, both of whom resurface occasionally like a perverted Greek chorus.
But the array of names herein would make a mighty golden display on the front or back cover of this, my remixed notion of a Hal Willner production. The list of legends is staggering enough: Leonard Cohen, Bonnie Raitt, Dr. John, Iggy Pop, Ringo Starr, James Taylor, Robbie Robertson, Bryan Ferry, David Johansen (in his Buster Poindexter guise), the currently covid-suffering Marianne Faithfull. Now add in just as many leading lights from the postmodern generations: Beck, Michael Stipe, Natalie Merchant, Los Lobos, Beth Orton, Marc Almond, the Replacements (doing “Cruella Deville”!), Wilco, Michael Gira of Swans, Akron/Family, Ed Harcourt, Joseph Arthur, Antony (sans Johnsons), Broken Social Scene, Jolie Holland. (Pro tip: Expand your Spotify view to ensure you see all the names involved on some cuts.)
Then there’s the unmistakable voice of Ken Nordine, the deep and foreboding narrator who begins and (nearly) ends this magnum opus with Pinocchio-adjacent readings. One minute of nervously luxuriating in his resonant tone should clue you in: this won’t be an easy ride. (Part of his opening bit provided a mantra I’ve clung to on many a cynical day: “Damn it all … damn everything … but the circus.”)
You also might notice just how far out of bounds these two “April Showers for Hal” playlists have gone, demolishing all of my self-imposed rules, like no more than 20 per playlist, although all of it still breaks down into time-comporting sides of vinyl. I envision Part 1 as a double-album with a bonus 7-inch of Leonard Cohen & U2’s rendition of “Tower of Song,” the same way Stevie Wonder stuck a 45 into the first pressing of Songs in the Key of Life. Part 2 divides into a 4xLP box set, with Side 8 left aside for an etching of Willner’s face.
My excuse for such an overindulgence? It’s a very Hal Willner thing to do. His live productions, for instance, were rarely smooth affairs boasting across-the-board great performances. They were messy wonders filled with collaborations never to be staged again, evenings that felt like peering in on rehearsals more than marveling at finished spectacles. The genius of it was always in the doing. Artists and audience simultaneously stumbling into happy little accidents, all devised by the usually unseen Mr. Willner. With any luck, this elegy for him, on his own terms and from his own sounds, conveys a sliver of that spirit.
I have only one more thing to add: It’s definitely a headphone-worthy double-feature. Focused attention on lyrical connections and genre shifts will be repaid handsomely. Barring that, I recommend playing everything very loudly, more than you might normally — all the better to savor the dynamic range, from quiet to chaos.