Ned P. Rauch

Putting Party Faith in the Right Man’s Hands

By Ned Rauch

A few weeks ago I got the call of a lifetime. It was midday on a Saturday. Unending, cold, autumn rain dousing the concrete outside. Later that night, two great friends of mine would celebrate their birthdays in one big bash. It was one of those friends on the phone.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “Would you put together the music for tonight?”

I have yet to be asked to be a godfather — friends who have say it’s one of life’s big moments. I’ve met a handful of Pulitzer winners, but I’ve never asked them about the call. Also probably a big deal. But this? If a party’s a book, your songs are the paper. Nautically speaking, they are the hearty wind when conversation hits the doldrums. They get people moving, dancing and trading e-mails and numbers. They’ve got to perform the way I imagine an experienced butler would attend to the guests: always there to help, to serve, but never in the way. The wrong songs (too grating, too weird, too predictable, too aggressive, too weak) and, well, party’s over. Think pushy butler.

“I’m honored,” I said. “But I have to go. There’s not much time.” Just eight hours to build an entire night, song by song. Remember John Cusack’s guiding words in “High Fidelity?” “Now, the making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art,” he said. “Many do’s and dont’s. First of all you’re using someone else’s poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing.” Truer words never spoken. Here’s what I came up with.

Number 1: “Angels in Harlem,” by Doctor Clayton. An old blues tune from way, way back. Great lines about how all the pretty girls live in Harlem and “plain women live out in the country, ’cause folks just don’t want them around. When you find a ugly woman living in Harlem, she’s either rich or from some other town.” I’ve seen pretty women in Harlem and the country, but who’s to argue with a guy named Doctor Clayton? Anyway, it was a palate-cleanser of an opening song. I figured no one arriving at the party would have just been listening to a scratchy recording of a piano-based blues number. It worked. Got everyone on the same page.

Next came “Loralee,” by The Whitsundays. I don’t remember where I found these guys, but I dig them, and it’s impossible to hear this song and not bob your head. This song would introduce motion to a roomful of people who just took off their coats.  Plus, there’s something James Bond-ish about the sound of it.

The Budos Band, a neo-funk band that records in Brooklyn, were third with “Chicago Falcon.” Philadelphia horns, Meters guitars, keys, a heavy — but nimble — rhythm section and no vocals. Slick playing and plenty of “oomph” (my Little League coaches always told me to put more “oomph” into my swings. Made sense then…).

Batting cleanup was Art Neville singing “Bo Diddley (Part One).” I love Bo Diddley and any song by him or about him (of which there are lots). We’re still uptempo here, important for the small-talk portion of the bash. If you were to air drum to any of these songs, your hands would be very, very busy.

Black Joe Louis covering the old James Brown song, “I Don’t Mind” followed. This guy kills me. He’s loose, wound up, crass and smooth all at once. Slower, but still plenty of funky stops. And horns and back-up singers, which do wonders for a party.

Now, a strange move: back to the Budos Band. I think I got taken in by the song title: “King Cobra.” I couldn’t not play it. Another slow-burning, instrumental funk tune. Somehow, it worked. No other bands got repeated plays. Go Budos.

I chose Albert King’s “Born Under a Bad Sign” next. It’s one of those blues songs that swagger through pain. “Wine and women is all I crave. A big-legged woman gonna carry me to my grave.” If that doesn’t spark a conversation, nothing will.

It’s late, I know, but we’re finally getting to the first female singer of the night: Betty Davis, with “Anti Love Song.” Slinky. Sexy. Tense. If this doesn’t get your wheels turning about the guy or girl standing by the bowls of almonds (one bowl with salt, one without) nothing will.

A while ago I co-hosted a radio show. During that time I connected with a guy at Bloodshot Records in Chicago who gave me a lot of cool stuff, including a record by Andre Williams. Williams is old (70-something), loud and dirty. His “Rosalie,” which I played here, is really dirty. Talks about things going on “up under the porch.” Great tune, though I saw someone give a double take at the porch line. Borderline pushy butler moment.

Number 10: Ace Frehley, with “New York Groove.” I’ve spent most of my life loathing KISS. Somehow, these last few years, I’ve started to fall under its spell. This song, which is from Ace’s solo record (in 1978 all the KISS members released solo records at the same time; they all tanked), should be a theme song. Not sure to what.

Following Ace (no easy task): Band of Bees, with “Who Cares What the Question Is?” It’s an ersatz Ringo Starr tune, but what the hell? Catchy ditty with a great slide guitar part and nice bounce between the one and three and two and four beats.

That’s 11. I’ve got 143 more to go but no room to do it. A few highlights: In the 18 slot, Clancy Eccles and “Don’t Brag, Don’t Boast.” No. 22: The Coup with “My Favorite Mutiny.” Buddy Holly’s “Down the Line” at 30. Patsy Cline and “Walkin’ After Midnight” at 51. No. 108? Fabienne Delsol with “Mr. Mystery.” And finishing it off, Bo Diddley, with “Diddley Daddy.”

I had put together eight hours and 26 minutes of music. A bit overkill. Still, it was a good party until some jerk with a watch almost as big as his ego hijacked the stereo and put on his own music. Disaster. One guy passed out standing up. The hostess got too drunk, pissed off her sister and berated her guests. See? Very subtle art. Like butlery. Which may, or may not, be a word.

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