In a way, Native Tongue feels like playing in a backyard. Not because it’s childish, but because of the innocence the echoes through it, the version of innocence that comes from people playing together and losing track of time—not reckless, just not self-conscious. This is a gentle way to lose oneself.
—Jardine Libaire
Founded by songwriter/musician, Andrew Morse, NYC-based group The Tasty Kings take flight on Native Tongue, their third full-length album (Stand Clear Music), this one with vocalist Blondie Chaplin, a six-decade journeyman from South Africa who’s toured/performed with The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys, The Byrds, Rick Danko, Jeff Beck, Brian Wilson and many more.
Several other Stones’ alum join the fray as Darryl Jones and Charley Drayton lay down an unmistakable groove. Also along for the ride are Charlie Sexton (guitar, vocals), Kevin Trainor (guitar), George Reiff (bass), Tony Garnier (bass), Stephen Barber (keys, Wurlitzer), Joel Diamond (keyboards), John Mills (sax), Milo Deering (dobro, strings), Jose Galeano (percussion, congas, Juliana Sheffield (vocals), Teresa Gattison (vocals), Sally Allen (vocals) and the late Ian McLagan, of Small Faces acclaim, on keys.
All-in for the right reasons, the camaraderie runs deep. With so many hands on deck, it’s a distillation of generations. As noted author Jardine Libaire (White Fur, Here Kitty Kitty, Gravity) has surmised in an eloquent essay, Native Tongue is a social record.
“There’s traces of companionship all over the album, clues in a hotel room that had been packed with friends who talked and laughed for hours, leaving behind stubbed-out cigarettes and empty take-out containers, someone forgot a silk scarf. It makes me tear up to hear Ian McLagan and George Reiff on “Oceans Unfaithful,” both great men gone from this immediate world but alive and beloved on this album. Both still at home in this house.
“In a way, Native Tongue feels like playing in a backyard. Not because it’s childish, but because of the innocence the echoes through it, the version of innocence that comes from people playing together and losing track of time, not caring about some evil authority figure that’s going to call them in for dinner—not reckless, just not self-conscious. This is a gentle way to lose oneself.
“Music is of course always a connector; go to any dancefloor for verification. But even when we're alone, an album like this includes us in the company of people who try to understand the same things and honor the same mysteries.
“A few lyrics either refer to a mythology, like the story of Icarus in “Flyboy,” or the lyrics in “The Girl Next Door” give a character her overdue and rightful place in folklore, or the lyrics grieve that the violence in our country has resulted in a tragically ageless story, in “George Floyd.”
“But even the narrative songs, like “Flyboy,” leave space for the listener to join in and help bring the story to fruition, to huddle in the dark corners, to wander inside the song. This is the supernatural power that poetry gives us. The good poems bring us up on the stage, into the ring, give us access to the labyrinth. They make a set of feelings like a cat’s cradle, a design of emotions and memories, lacing hands together.”
None moreso than “Maybe I’m a Queen,” do bodies, minds and timelines coalesce the divine.
“Maybe I’m a Queen” puts me in a movie theater with rows of strangers, all of us looking at the screen together; the song is the epic soundtrack of a film not made yet, that should get made. It’s a movie you want to watch over and over, it makes you feel good, it becomes a classic. Largely because of the characters. One of the strongest throughlines to this album is a sense of mindful people collaborating on it, which, after the past few completely divisive years, is priceless. The tracks promise to take care of us. They promise community,” shares Libaire.
“Maybe I’m a Queen” is a resplendent beacon of interconnectivity, “This one came to me in 2019 at the airport in Austin, Texas. Originally it came out sounding like the Stones, but then it took on a more acoustic vibe. It took a while to figure out all the different images— I tried all sorts of combinations before settling on a final draft. Hearing Blondie sing it really opened it up, gave it more depth,” Morse recalls.
To complement the song, he entrusted South African native Jacques Naudé to helm an artfully brilliant short-form film that’s already been awarded honors by the Munich Music Video Awards and others. With a cast that represents the best of us, it’s an elevation of the medium.
Libaire paints its essence, “Nameless highways, cityscapes too far away to touch, and empty sidewalks—this modern world asks questions about who we are. “Maybe I’m a Queen” answers with a dreamy, radiant, lovely little portfolio. The Tasty Kings with Blondie Chaplin are putting together the shards of a broken mirror.
“For someone who played midnight gigs at the age of twelve in 1963 South Africa, you’d think Blondie could be jaded. But his eyes are clear, his voice is raw, and he conducts this song in a sacred tone. He lies back on crimson carpet in a hotel with nowhere to be, and thinks about this strange moment in time. And what does he promise?
“The city is impenetrable, the overpass is blank, the cars are blurs. But a parade of souls, portraits that quiver like a flower does, show us humanity. Even when these beautiful characters are filmed alone, they’re brought together. The queen, the mother, the child, the hero from a long-ago dream, the poet running guns on the side.
It's a fractured place we call home these days, we’re divided and at odds. But Blondie’s words match each brief moment here of exquisite dance, a girl laughing, a man moving with a shadow—proving we’re all one, and the same spirit flows through every being.”
Several other Stones’ alum join the fray as Darryl Jones and Charley Drayton lay down an unmistakable groove. Also along for the ride are Charlie Sexton (guitar, vocals), Kevin Trainor (guitar), George Reiff (bass), Tony Garnier (bass), Stephen Barber (keys, Wurlitzer), Joel Diamond (keyboards), John Mills (sax), Milo Deering (dobro, strings), Jose Galeano (percussion, congas, Juliana Sheffield (vocals), Teresa Gattison (vocals), Sally Allen (vocals) and the late Ian McLagan, of Small Faces acclaim, on keys.
All-in for the right reasons, the camaraderie runs deep. With so many hands on deck, it’s a distillation of generations. As noted author Jardine Libaire (White Fur, Here Kitty Kitty, Gravity) has surmised in an eloquent essay, Native Tongue is a social record.
“There’s traces of companionship all over the album, clues in a hotel room that had been packed with friends who talked and laughed for hours, leaving behind stubbed-out cigarettes and empty take-out containers, someone forgot a silk scarf. It makes me tear up to hear Ian McLagan and George Reiff on “Oceans Unfaithful,” both great men gone from this immediate world but alive and beloved on this album. Both still at home in this house.
“In a way, Native Tongue feels like playing in a backyard. Not because it’s childish, but because of the innocence the echoes through it, the version of innocence that comes from people playing together and losing track of time, not caring about some evil authority figure that’s going to call them in for dinner—not reckless, just not self-conscious. This is a gentle way to lose oneself.
“Music is of course always a connector; go to any dancefloor for verification. But even when we're alone, an album like this includes us in the company of people who try to understand the same things and honor the same mysteries.
“A few lyrics either refer to a mythology, like the story of Icarus in “Flyboy,” or the lyrics in “The Girl Next Door” give a character her overdue and rightful place in folklore, or the lyrics grieve that the violence in our country has resulted in a tragically ageless story, in “George Floyd.”
“But even the narrative songs, like “Flyboy,” leave space for the listener to join in and help bring the story to fruition, to huddle in the dark corners, to wander inside the song. This is the supernatural power that poetry gives us. The good poems bring us up on the stage, into the ring, give us access to the labyrinth. They make a set of feelings like a cat’s cradle, a design of emotions and memories, lacing hands together.”
None moreso than “Maybe I’m a Queen,” do bodies, minds and timelines coalesce the divine.
“Maybe I’m a Queen” puts me in a movie theater with rows of strangers, all of us looking at the screen together; the song is the epic soundtrack of a film not made yet, that should get made. It’s a movie you want to watch over and over, it makes you feel good, it becomes a classic. Largely because of the characters. One of the strongest throughlines to this album is a sense of mindful people collaborating on it, which, after the past few completely divisive years, is priceless. The tracks promise to take care of us. They promise community,” shares Libaire.
“Maybe I’m a Queen” is a resplendent beacon of interconnectivity, “This one came to me in 2019 at the airport in Austin, Texas. Originally it came out sounding like the Stones, but then it took on a more acoustic vibe. It took a while to figure out all the different images— I tried all sorts of combinations before settling on a final draft. Hearing Blondie sing it really opened it up, gave it more depth,” Morse recalls.
To complement the song, he entrusted South African native Jacques Naudé to helm an artfully brilliant short-form film that’s already been awarded honors by the Munich Music Video Awards and others. With a cast that represents the best of us, it’s an elevation of the medium.
Libaire paints its essence, “Nameless highways, cityscapes too far away to touch, and empty sidewalks—this modern world asks questions about who we are. “Maybe I’m a Queen” answers with a dreamy, radiant, lovely little portfolio. The Tasty Kings with Blondie Chaplin are putting together the shards of a broken mirror.
“For someone who played midnight gigs at the age of twelve in 1963 South Africa, you’d think Blondie could be jaded. But his eyes are clear, his voice is raw, and he conducts this song in a sacred tone. He lies back on crimson carpet in a hotel with nowhere to be, and thinks about this strange moment in time. And what does he promise?
“The city is impenetrable, the overpass is blank, the cars are blurs. But a parade of souls, portraits that quiver like a flower does, show us humanity. Even when these beautiful characters are filmed alone, they’re brought together. The queen, the mother, the child, the hero from a long-ago dream, the poet running guns on the side.
It's a fractured place we call home these days, we’re divided and at odds. But Blondie’s words match each brief moment here of exquisite dance, a girl laughing, a man moving with a shadow—proving we’re all one, and the same spirit flows through every being.”
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