The moog synthesiser is an incredibly interesting instrument: as versatile as the human voice, essential to the rise of prog rock in the 1970s and still a hallmark for synthesiser virtuosity today. What a shame that one of its first popular instrumental compositions has been appropriated by a blue CGI frog that lived only to annoy every music lover in 2005. This is an attempt to redeem the original genius of Popcorn and the artistic ingenuity of synthesiser jazz fusion band Hot Butter.
There are some great cover versions of Gershon Kingsley’s 1969 hit Pop Corn (recorded for the album with the magnificent title Music to Moog by). Whereas the original displays a playful ingenuity for the possibilities of electronic music by shuffling and restructuring its steel-drum inspired synthesiser lines, the 2010 Muppet’s version heightens the narrative drama by situating the piece in Swedish Chef’s kitchen and utilising diegetic kitchen sounds to re-create the iconic melody (note especially the beautiful second melody played by the Chef on an array of glasses). But before Crazy Frog came along and devalued this classic into an annoying ringtone, Hot Butter’s 1972 cover stood tall as the track’s most well-known representative.
What is so enticing about Hot Butter’s version is the level of care that clearly went into the mixing of different synthesiser timbres: the opening bass line positions the track immediately within electronic music, a pulsating wave-line that is quickly accompanied by the titular popcorn sound. However, what sets this version apart and what will only increase as the song grows, as it incorporates more lines and moves past the singular melody of its name, is the sudden tender emergence of a French horn inspired synthesiser coming through at the bottom of the mix. A softness that offsets the sharpness and bubbly precision of our main melody rises tenderly, as if not to disturb the listener while simultaneously preparing the way for an increase of analogue-instrument references.
About a minute into the song, a whole violin section swoops in, elevating the track as the strings paint over busy, boiling synth arpeggios. Moving effortlessly above the turmoil of ascending and descending runs it only faintly resembles the simple and at times washed-out sound of its original counterpart. Hot Butter took the basic melody and song structure and turned Kingsley’s experiment into a full-fledged single, complete with dramatic arch and orchestrating prowess. Their version elevates the melodic muddiness of the original, bringing into focus and contrasting the different timbres and colours of the synthesiser beautifully.
Hot Butter have released entire albums. For this review I invested the time to listen to all 72 minutes of 28 Big Ones, a 2005 anthology that, as the title suggests, contains 28 of the band’s greatest hits. I’m not sure I would recommend listening to the entire record in one sitting as I did, but there are some gems on there definitely worth your time. So, to end this review, here is a quick overview of my favourites: Day by Day, originally from Stephen Schwartz’s musical Godspell, this track deserves a recommendation simply for the use of both a disco organ and a synthesiser mode that sounds like a recorder – it’s weird in all the rights ways. Apache is equally ridiculous, complete with coconut-horse-sounds á la Monty Python’s Holy Grail while magnificently cheap sounding synth violins and even cheaper synth trumpets perfectly round of this pastiche of Jerry Lordan’s 1960 classic. Space Walk can be best described as a funk/jazz combo performed mostly on the moog synthesiser – it is a perfect display of the band’s virtuosity and the almost infinite potential of the analogue synthesiser as a full-fledged instrument. Lastly, in a full circle return to the Muppets, do yourself a favour and listen to Hot Butter’s version of Ma Nah Ma Nah, which my listening notes described as ‘cursed in the most wonderful way’.
In over an hour of musical material, Hot Butter display the variety and possibilities of electronic music without ever limiting themselves to singled out genres, eras or sources of inspiration. They emulate swooping strings sections with the same ease as bravado-us guitar solos or glitterific disco organs. It’s a wild ride of lovingly recorded covers that takes a 21st century listener on a wonderfully weird journey down the synthesiser rabbit hole.
The Dad Anthology 