Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard “Pancho and Lefty” / “Opportunity to Cry”

I know this song from the Townes Van Zandt version, who wrote it—it’s a good song. A while back I was listening to a lot of Townes Van Zandt, who was a great songwriter and singer, but at some point, for some reason, I had to take a break… I have no idea why. Maybe some feeling of inescapable sadness from his songs. It’s my problem. I’ll come back to him. I don’t want to be a person who is just trying to escape all the time. Anyway, this is a version sung by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Every time I hear Willie Nelson, I try to figure out just what makes his voice so distinctive and lovely. And Merle Haggard—I went through a phase with him a few decades back. So I was expecting something here, but I just can’t get past the production—it sounds like everyone is on TV, with makeup and manicured nails. Maybe it’s just the sound of 1982. I’d much prefer a version recorded in a truck-stop bathroom or a tent, somewhere, or a shed, or in the backseat on a trip. That’s just my preference. The B-side is better, not sure why. The funny thing is—the magic 8-ball happened to pick out this record at almost the same time I started reading Bob Dylan’s new book (The Philosophy if Modern Song), and I just came to a chapter on this recording—so I stopped reading and wrote this. Now I’ll go back and see what Bob’s take is… sure to be entirely different than mine. Maybe he’ll convince me.

So, ol’ Bob gives us as bit of the history of Townes Van Zandt. How ultimately, Hank Williams was his guy—I can hear that. I didn’t know that he died on New Year’s Day, like Hank. Dylan then has some kind words about Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Then, mostly, he kind of interprets the lyrics of the song, and goes on and on. Which got me to listen to the song in a new light—based on the words, more, I mean. I’ve always liked Townes’ version, of course, the beautiful melody, and the sadness. It’s a nutty song… like a dual narrative, with Pancho meeting his fate in Mexico, and Lefty ending up in, of all places, Cleveland. Where I’ve spent a few years—and could very well have “ended up.”

Out of curiosity, I checked out the album (by the same name) that this song is from,, which includes the B-side, “Opportunity to Cry.” The album also includes Merle Haggard’s “Reasons to Quit”—followed by “No Reason to Quit.” I gotta say, that’s some inspired sequencing. Those songs sound great. I don’t know why the sound of the title track put me off when I first spun it, so I give it another try. It’s a great song, sure, but this production—it starts off sounding like a bloated Hollywood movie from the Eighties, when everything got expensive but looked cheap. I’m sorry I can’t get past that. All recorded songs are essentially the perfect evocation of a time and place, more than anything. Sure, there’s poetry, and performances, and emotion, love, big hearts, passion, ideas, philosophy, history, all of it. But when it comes down to it, it’s still you getting invited into a room. And this is just a room—in spite of the good people and grand intentions—this is a room I don’t want to spend time in.

2.26.23

The Peppermint Rainbow “Will You Be Staying After Sunday”

Was The Peppermint Rainbow one of those bands with names like The Peppermint Airplane, The Marshmallow Overcoat, The Chocolate Alarm Clock, The Marzipan Table Saw, The Peanut Butter Rainbow? No doubt. I’m getting very little from the album cover—the front looks like it was meticulously composed and executed by a 7th Grade stoner during a week of concentrated study halls. Maybe a little more information will help. “Sunshine Pop”—from Baltimore—they formed in 1967 and this record is from 1969. The band members were not the songwriters, here, in Peppermint Rainbow Universe.

The back is as full-size photo of the band standing in front of some oppressive architectural behemoth in matching costumes. (There should be a category by now, albums in which the back, or inside, cover should be THE cover.) They look great—the men with light blue flared slacks and matching scarves, dark blue shirts, and white leather shoes. The women have matching light blue mini-dresses with dark blue sashes and white leather go-go boots. They all have great hair. Three men, two women. The guy nearest us, and thus biggest, has a great moustache, plastic frame glasses, and a massive belt, the buckle of which is a plain silver ring about four inches in diameter—I don’t even know how that belt works—and now I’m kind of obsessed with finding one. It doesn’t mean anything weird, does it, that belt? That reminds me, I recently had a dream in which a couple of guys had belt buckles like that—the dream just came back to me—and now I’m seriously creeped out!

Decca Records, no date, no info but producer and arranger and songwriting credits—names I’m not previously familiar with. Romantic pop songs, all mildly catchy. Wait, here’s “Green Tambourine”—I know that one! It’s one of those radio hits from the Sixties that did nothing but annoy me. So, this isn’t shaping up well. Even worse, that was The Lemon Pipers, but producer Paul Leka co-wrote “Green Tambourine” (he also wrote that “Na Na Na Na…” song by Steam, sadly adopted by mindless legions of annoying sports fans sung in fascistic anthemic style), and he used the backing tracks from The Lemon Pipers (if we’re to believe the Wikipedia) for this version here—which makes this equally annoying. But also weird and parallel-universe-y.

Anyway, The Peppermint Rainbow were originally called The New York Times, but they changed their name—I can’t imagine why. Because they found out there was a newspaper by that name? Because they were afraid of aways having to play on double bills with Huey Lewis and The News? They split up in 1970, sadly, because this album is not bad. I can listen to it. The title song transports you to a sunny, colorful, TV show that includes conflict each week and tackles some serious themes—but, ultimately, love prevails, because of the good hearts of the people involved (who are also all unbearably cute). My favorite song is “Sierra (Chasin’ My Dream)”—besides being a good title, it’s a smooth pop song, and the most melancholy track on the album. About a guy who’s leaving behind his girlfriend for his guitar—always a bad idea, because she’s not going to wait. She just isn’t. The guitar will wait. It will even sound better, in time. But his girlfriend… she has moved on. (I made up the end part, but a good song will do that to you…)

2.24.23

Marcel Dzama “Une Danse Des Bouffons”

This is a record that came with a Believer magazine back in 2014—it’s a 7-inch soundtrack record for a film called Une Danse Des Bouffons by Marcel Dzama, a young Canadian filmmaker who I know nothing about—let’s see if I can find it online. Of course it is. The music is fine, if boring—it sounds like a few people with vintage string instruments and untraditional percussion making an experimental movie soundtrack. Exactly. With very few exceptions do I think acoustic guitar-like instruments work for movie soundtracks. This is just a bias of mine. There’s some nice flute on one track, and a lockgroove at the end. It’s only four songs, so I can’t imagine anyone getting too worked up by it. The art on the little cardboard cover is very cool—probably the best part of the artifact. The object here, I suppose, is that these will become collectable and thus worth something, but if everyone who got one of these with their Believer subscription has the same idea, they will never be worth money. Maybe if you wait long enough—but for how long, exactly? It seems like as more time goes on, things get less rare rather than more rare—leading one to believe there are a lot of hoarders out there.

2.23.23

The Gaylords “Spinning a Web” / “Ramona”

Spider metaphor, it’s the one about deceiving. This is a great sounding record—like it’s from another time, which I guess it is—even though 1953 seems like yesterday. I know… I always say that, but it’s true—the world changes a lot faster than I age. But I’ll catch up, I’m sure. “Ramona” is about Ramona—it starts out sad, she’s gone—but then the tempo picks up, and there’s some crazy backup singing and organ. I’ve never heard of The Gaylords, yet I’ve got like four of their 45s—though who knows when I’ll get to the others—when their magic number comes up. Okay, they were a vocal trio—at least of couple of them from Detroit—Italian guys, from Detroit—and some of their songs with a little Italian. So says the Wikipedia… we’ll see. It also says they were originally called The Gay Lords—but that might be a good story. Anyway, they released a bunch of records in the Fifties, and some were hits. My only experience with “Gaylords” was when I was working a third shift warehouse job, my supervisor instructed me to put my finished work in a “Gaylord.” No internet back then, so I was confused. I swore I looked this up before, to no avail, but I just did again, and there’s a whole page explaining their history—they are a type of shipping box—named after the Gaylord Container Corporation, from St. Louis! Mystery solved—but this vocal group are still a bit of a mystery. I’ll look for the documentary.

2.20.23

Lionel Hampton “Golden Vibes”

A year (1959) before Lionel Hampton’s “Silver Vibes,” came this one, subtitled: “with reeds and rhythm.” What I said (in my earlier review) about the Silver Vibes album cover also applies here (though this one is much better, overall). As usual, I can listen to Lionel Hampton records all night long, and as I’ve said before, the jazz vibraphone is perhaps my earliest memory of music—from my dad’s collection—probably meant to quiet me in my crib. And here I sit six decades later, still listening to Hamp in my “crib”—though, since having replaced the formula bottle with the bourbon bottle, and since, the sparkling water. Oh, well, the music makes me happy to simply be alive. This record features a song I’m most obsessed with (“Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”) and one of my favorite jazz compositions (’Round Midnight”) as well as standards I recognize, some I don’t, and some Hampton compositions with names like “Vibraholidy.”

It starts off with “My Prayer”—which immediately beams you into a smoky, dim cocktail lounge, candlelit through red glass, with mysterious figures deep in the shadows. I don’t know about you, but I’m drinking a Rusty Nail. It occurs to me now, that’s an awful name for any drink—and particularly that one. Should I start drinking again, I’m going to rename it “Lauren Bacall”—though, there probably is one. Cocktails are like band names. If there isn’t a cocktail called “But Beautiful”—there should be—and this version, here. Okay. (Not) in keeping with the Olympic medals model, I’ve got to say, as good as this record is, I do like Silver Vibes better—but that’s a unique and exceptional recording. That’s the one with trombones on all the tracks—if I remember correctly. A pretty stunning record. I don’t think he did a “Bronze Vibes”—that would be too weird… maybe I’m wrong. So many records—I’m not even going to check them all. He was active over the large part of the 20th Century—a pretty amazing dude.

The liner notes, by Irving Townsend, cover the back cover—worth reading, too—gives you the sense of where Lionel Hampton was as popular recording artist when this record came out (the year before I was born). For an odd minute, while listening to the record and reading the back cover, then looking at the generic yet classy album cover, I got this strong feeling of what it might have been like back then, at the time this record came out—the feeling you’d get going to your local record store and buying this album brand new. You’ve already heard a few Lionel Hampton records, of course, or maybe you have several, like my dad did, and then you get this one, and it’s all new to you. Really exciting. When was the last time I went out and bought a contemporary record new, and had that sensation? Well, a few years ago I did, but had to get it mail-order—and it felt different than going to the record store and picking out the record, based on experiences, but also curiosity. I wish I could talk to my dad right now about buying all the jazz records that he had—how he knew about them, where he got the records, which ones first, and how he felt hearing a new one.

2.17.23

John Wesley Ryles “Shine On Me”

I’ve heard the title track, “Shine On Me (The Sun Still Shines When It Rains)”—it must have been a hit. A terrible song. No, it’s okay, very poppy, very light—I suppose one of the catchiest on the album. I have absolutely no idea why I have this record—I never heard of John Wesley Ryles—and it’s from 1978—everything after 1974 is pretty much a red flag, unless you know better. It’s a country record, but you wouldn’t know it from the cover—maybe goin’ for crossover. It’s got an absolutely hideous cover—front and back, airbrushed blue sky with clouds. And then a 7 by 5 ½ inch photo of J.W. Ryles with an airbrushed sun in the corner—and either he’s got space alien level complexion or his face is airbrushed as well. Airbrush artist workin’ overtime! He’s got a cool looking jacket, and you can barely make out the edge of a guitar—so it looks like (if you’re not thinkin’ guitar) like there’s a random piece of wood there. The credits make out that he’s a Nashville guy, I guess. Should I look him up? He’s still a young man—been in the business for decades. He had a hit song, “Kay,” when he was 17, so he’s been dealing’ with that for a lifetime. It’s interesting, normally you’d think this would be a songwriter’s record, but he only wrote one, here—“Next Time”—which happens to be the best song on the album (or second best—see below). Seventy percent of the songs were written or co-written by Terry Skinner, who is also recording engineer (but not a credited musician). Funny place, Nashville. Most of his songs are too peppy for me—though “Cry No More My Lady” is quite nice. He does have a theme going—I mean, besides love gone wrong—there’s a lot of sun and rain references—including storm sound effects on “All Day Rain”—a pretty good song. “Kay” ends the record—I presume a newer version of it—it’s a story song, with enough key changes to get you down the Ohio River high and dry. A bit of a “star is born” story. My favorite song on the record is a cover of the Gerry and the Pacemakers song, “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying”—that’s just an excellent song—and Ryles is a fine singer—does it a good turn.

2.16.23

Donna Summer “MacArthur Park” / “Once Upon a Time”

This live version of “Once Upon a Time” is a fast-paced popsong narrative, a mini-movie, contemporary noir told in hyper disco nightclub style—it’s over before I can type this sentence. Maybe it’s supposed to be 33 1/3 RPM, not 45 (doesn’t actually say on the record). There’s 1978 live audience noise at the beginning, but now it sounds quite ominous. It sounds really cool and weird, actually, the only thing is that now Donna Summer sounds like a slightly off, male crooner. It’s weird that it’s a B-Side, since the studio version of this was the title song of a double album from the year before. I only know that because I happened to be looking at a list of those “33 1/3” books, and there’s one about that album. It’s weird how once you open yourself up to something, the connections start to happen. I was never a disco fan, so this is my sole record by the Queen of Disco. Donna Summer was, to some degree, the just-offscreen soundtrack to the crucial years of my life. No doubt I picked up this one because the A-Side is “MacArthur Park,” one of my favorite songs—and I always love to hear what various artists have done with it. Here, she starts out with a few quiet dramatic lines, and then there’s that annoying disco sound effect (I never did know what that was, it sounds like a clown prop noise) and then it launches into a full disco version of the rest of the song. I’m not crazy about it—still haven’t come around to disco. Give me a few more years. It’s still the song, though, very catchy. No matter what presentation you go with, the line, “someone left the cake out in the rain” is no less weird. It’s a perfect expression of something, though no one knows what it means. (Still haven’t read that Jimmy Webb memoir.) Anyway, it’s a pleasure to hear Donna Summer sing that line, and that song—it just adds to the meaning and the mystique.

2.13.23

Frank Sinatra “September of My Years”

This is one melancholy Sinatra record! It’s the work of a man looking back at his life, and ahead at the days left, and realizing there are one hell of a lot more days behind him. I wonder what the typical age of a person is when that realization hits them? For some, I suppose, it’s the big FOUR O. For me, I guess that was classic midlife crisis time—in that I was acting pretty much like an escaped clown for a few years. So… I wonder how old Sinatra actually was when this record came out? This a 1965 record—and Francis Albert was born in 1915, so that’s easy math. So, this is his turnin’ the corner at 50 record, I get it. It’s a milestone for anyone—though now that I’m 63, I maintain that 50 is decidedly not old. Though, if you drink and smoke and carry on, you might be feelin’ it. A lot of popular standards, here. The songs that make up a large part of Sinatra’s repertoire are songs about seasons, it always seems like—weather, rain, seasons, and the time of day. “It Gets Lonely Early” was always one of my favorites, as is “Last Night When We Were Young.” The record starts with “September of My Years” and ends with “September Song.” The album cover is a classic—an illustration of Sinatra in the shadows, blue suit and tie, blue background—a good likeness, serious, not sad, looking off toward the horizon. The back cover has an odd description: “Frank Sinatra sings of days and loves ago.” The orchestra is Gordon Jenkins, and there are liner notes by Stan Cornyn—this might have been one of his award-winning bits, for what it’s worth. A descriptive and poetic account of the recording session, a little funny and a little weird, and of course very loving. Here’s an excerpt: “Of the bruising day. Of the rouged lips and bourbon times. Of chill winds, of forgotten ladies who ride in limousines.” This is a good record for lonely times, and cold, dark winter evenings.

2.10.23

Bob Kames “Dance Little Bird” / “I’ll Never Get Married Again”

Full credits: Bob Kames – The Happy Organ – Featuring Dad & The Kids. It’s an instrumental polka organ record. Though, I guess “Dance Little Bird” AKA “The Chicken Dance” is considered oom-pah music—and was massively popular and sold bajillions of records, worldwide. So, I can appreciate this music in the same way I appreciate someone spinning plates—I could never do it, and I’m amazed by the feat—but I’m not staying up past my bedtime watching YouTube videos. Well, just as I write that, I found a video of Bob Kames performing the song, along with some bird-costumed dancers. Probably one of the best things on that channel. Still, the music—it’s a little hard to swallow. It just occurred to me exactly who the audience is for this record. It’s exactly the person who sees the title, “Happy Organ,” and doesn’t immediately think “erect penis.” Those people are out there—and there’s more than you think. And I’m not proud of not being one of them. But I do have a “dirty” mind. You find lots of Bob Kames records in his hometown of Milwaukee—he cranked out the organ and polka records, I guess. I’m not going to include a bio here, because I’ve no doubt got a Bob Kames LP or two to write about, by and by. His Wikipedia page is well-worth checking out. It wasn’t that long ago you could go in person to the Kames Organ store—I remember not long after moving to Milwaukee, “George” Ruschhapt and I found a nice, smaller Hammond organ at a Salvation Army in Sheboygan, for nothing. It had the little oil lubrication cups, so we went out to Kames Music—I think it was out around Forest Home aways somewhere—and we bought official Hammond oil. It was a cool store—the basement filled with amazing organs. When I have a spare evening, I’ll look up some more history—though, the history of The Chicken Dance—watch out for that one!

2.9.23

James O’Gwynn “One Bar Stool at a Time” / “Scene of My Latest Sin”

“I’m comin’ home to you one barstool at a time,” is the one-line chorus. It’s got such a gnarly sound, I can’t make out all the lyrics—the record looks like maybe he had it with him on his journey, maybe using it as a coaster—but the idea is, he keeps drinking, inching from barstool to barstool, getting up the nerve to go home to “you.” The world is reduced to a bar, some wine, and what can’t be a healthy relationship. I don’t know why I find country songs about barstools and drinking so romantic when I hate bars and I don’t drink. It’s a good sign that I’m an idiot, I guess. “I’ve just left the scene of my latest sin,” is the chorus of the B-side—it’s a little slower, sadder, regretful—but it’s about cheatin’. James O’Gwynn, from Mississippi, cranked out the country records in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. This 45 is from 1969, on the STOP label (logo in the shape of a stop sign). Wouldn’t it be cool if they made their seven-inch singles in an octagon shape? (The grooves still in a circle, of course.) For the bit of unused vinyl wasted, it would have been a great gimmick—people’d still be talkin’ ’bout that marketing folly/coup. Wait… maybe someone did do that? An exhaustive search (five minutes) on the internet, and I found a hexagon shaped record—so an octagon wouldn’t surprise me. STOP Records—outta Nashville—released a bajillion records (accurate count), so I’m guessing the idea came up at more than a few board meetings—and maybe they even did it. But I’ve spent too much time in this bar already.

2.5.23

Don Patterson “Satisfaction!”

I’d never heard of Don Patterson, but I love jazz organ, it’s on Prestige Records, there’s liner notes, recorded by Rudy Van Gelder, it’s a trio (Don Patterson, organ; Jerry Byrd, guitar; Billy James, drums), looks to be from 1966, and it must have been in a cheap bin, where you never see good jazz. The cover photo of (I assume) Don Patterson is funny—dark suit and skinny tie, cigarette—and he’s standing in front of some trees, like he’s in a forest. It makes no sense, but most of my favorite album covers don’t. The liner notes, by Bob Porter, are pretty entertaining. He gives some background on Patterson—he played with some “difficult” guys like Gene Ammons and Sonny Stitt, and so forth. Then he goes on and on about controversy in the jazz world over jazz organ music, which I wasn’t really aware of—I’ve just always loved what I’ve heard. Apparently, some purists found it either too commercial or too weird or maybe both at the same time, which really doesn’t make sense. Or perhaps they thought the organ was a gimmick? You try moving one of those things (the big Hammonds), they’re the size a Buick. And you think your done, and you’ve still got to move that Leslie speaker, the size of a Chevy. And don’t forget the bench. And pedals.

There are five tracks on the record—all of them long, except for the title track (kind of buried in the middle of Side B), a cover the Rolling Stones hit from the year before—and it’s actually 20 seconds shorter than the Stones song. Other than the melody, it has virtually nothing to do with it—sounds like it’s played with one hand (the other hand holding their noses)—no doubt hoping to sell some records with the title. The rest of the songs are much more satisfying—they’re all really good, particularly the two Don Patterson compositions on Side A. Including the one with the best title: “Bowl Full of Yok”—which would have been a better name for the album. There’s a lot of insane organ on this record, as you would hope. There’s at least one drum solo, and some really nice jazz guitar, including some solos. I spent a frantic few minutes (hours) picking The Big Brain about this guitarist, Jerry Byrd. I recently bought a jazz guitar record by Charlie Byrd—not the same dude. Well, there’s also Joseph, Donald, Jonathan, Steve, you-name-it Byrd—all musicians. And The Byrds had so many lineups, there must have been a Byrd among the Clarks and the Parsonses. But most significantly, there’s a Jerry Byrd who is a guitarist who I recently reviewed in these pages—but it was a Hawaiian music record, and he plays steel guitar—it just doesn’t make any since that this could be him. Finally, I found a brief listing for the jazz guitarist from Pittsburgh, who I believe this is—the drummer’s also from Pittsburgh. Both are excellent on this record. Don Patterson was born in Columbus, Ohio—he died relatively young (52), but put out a bunch of records, all with pretty good titles: (“Hip Cake Walk,” “Four Dimensions,” “Funk You!”). Probably any or all of them are worth checking out.

2.3.23

MAD Magazine presents (featuring “SMYLE”) – “Makin’ Out”

There are several writer and vocal credits right on the disc, but I’m not out to embarrass people. “SMYLE” is good enough, and if that alternative spelling makes you smile, you might like this song, a MAD Magazine flexi disc from 1978 that no doubt came with the magazine—I have no idea how I ended up with it. I have no recollection of ever hearing it until the 8-Ball picked it, just now. It’s a novelty, upbeat, musical comedy, disco number with the entire dinner theater cast taking turns at the mic—to tell us who is, or has been, “makin’ out,” c. 1978—with the final exasperation: “everyone’s been makin’ out… but me.” Had I heard this at that time, it would have hit too close to home… would have been too depressing… besides being annoying and unfunny. The first part about trying to “make out” in the confines of a Ford Maverick is funny—too bad the song wasn’t over at the two-minute mark. Unfortunately, it drags out for six and a half minutes, with a list people who are makin’ out, including: the Oakland Raiders, Ralph Nader, Darth Vader, Jack Sprat, the Wolfman, The Muppets, space aliens, Archie Bunker, Superman, King Kong, Frankenstein, Mr. Spock, a pet rock, Santa Claus, The Fonz, Charlie Brown, Count Dracula, and on and on… There’s even a bit about Scorpios who won’t make out with Capricorns. Good lord. Even if I could convince everyone to burn all existing copies of this artifact, I’m never going to get that six and a half minutes back.

2.2.23

Dr Pepper “A Slice of Lemon”

Times may be weird, with grifters and clowns runnin’ the show—but grifters and clowns always been runnin’ the show—and I like to argue that as weird as times are, they were even weirder in 1966. Unfortunately, I was only six years old at the time and didn’t have the perspective at that age to appreciate it. It just seemed normal to me. Likewise, for a kid growing up now, to see every single person staring at a small rectangular device at all times—simply seems normal. God help us.

Anyway, here’s a slice of 1966 weirdness, brought to you by Dr Pepper, “The soft drink Ray Speen would drink, if he drank that shit.” (Unpaid plug—as is, every seven years when I go down the Dr Pepper ingredients rabbit-hole.) Instead of “Various” or “Columba Special Products,” I’m calling Dr Pepper the artist here, since they put up good money for this time capsule, and it doesn’t even say “Dr Pepper” anywhere on the front, back, or side cover, or the label! You would never know, if it weren’t for the intro track, by Dick Clark. The cover just confused me, because it says the title in big black letters, but there’s a very-light-yellow sliced lemon instead of the “o” so it ends up looking like: A SLICE OF LEM (followed by an N). LEM, in the late-Sixties, meant “Lunar Excursion Module.” Also, someone wrote their name on the cover, and their name was “Pumpkin.” After all that, I barely noticed the photo of three, young, blonde people (2 gals, 1 dude) in ski resort casual wear, in front of a fire, all with lascivious grins, and drinking a brown beverage in glass mugs—I assumed it was Keoke Coffee. There are liner notes on the back cover but it looks like someone threw up on it and cleaned it too vigorously (not vigorously enough), so I can’t read most of it—but it appears to be inane ad copy about each of the ten artists and songs.

The first time I listened to this record (without looking to see who was on it) I thought it must be the case that someone had slipped the wrong record in the cover—that’s how jarringly bizarre the whole thing comes off. Quiz question for later: which one of the musical artists represented here did I, at one time, see live? Anyway, the track that makes the most sense is the intro, by Dick Clark, where he tells us it’s specially produced for Dr Pepper during ski season, and then tells us how to make HOT Dr Pepper: pour some in a saucepan and heat it, then pour it over a slice of lemon. It sounds good, actually, but I’ve never heard of anyone doing that. What we did do in 1966, though, was pour Vernors Ginger Ale in a glass over half & half—delicious!

Even though the local AM radio played a pretty bizarre selection of shit in 1966 (our station, in Sandusky, Ohio, was WLEC), I’m not sure it was ever this all-over-the-place. But maybe it was, and I just blocked out half of it. Anyway, this was in the air. What follows then are songs by The Dave Clark Five, then The Brothers Four (at this point, you’re wondering if they are trying to connect each track by some linguistic device)—and it’s got to be the worst of all the lame versions of “Mr. Tambourine Man” out there. Next, a Percy Faith orchestral version of “Yesterday”—which is the only Beatles song I ever played, and the only song I ever learned, as a teen, to play on the piano with both left and right hand parts (which now is simply a sad reminder of me failing at piano). The New Christy Minstrels sing “Downtown,” always a great song, and then Tony Bennett gives us “The Good Life.”

Side 2 delves into jazz—The Dave Brubeck Quartet with “Little Girl Blue,” not bad. Then we have Andre Previn doing “Bluesette”—another attempt at a connection? Doris Day belts out “Fly Me to the Moon”—and so the only logical song to follow that is Bob Dylan belting out “Maggie’s Farm.” Why not. Ha! Why not. You really have to wonder if Dylan has this record in his collection. He must. Now I’m curious if he talks about it in that new book of his. Simon and Garfunkel singing “Leaves That Are Green” is a bit of a letdown, but at least, then, you’re okay to drive. And so… I hope you enjoyed this fitting intro to Farraginous February 2023—hard to believe it’s only 57 years later! The answer to the quiz question is: Tony Bennett.

2.1.23

Scott Walker “Scott 3”

Though I may have heard The Walker Bothers as a lad, I had no idea who Scott Walker was until I saw a documentary about him, a decade or so ago—which I’d like to see again—which led to me reading about him and listening to some of his music online. I noticed some things, such as he was from Ohio, had pop career, then started expanding his music in more interesting directions. He reminded me somewhat of Mark Eitzel, I guess, so that was exciting. Some of his later music is really experimental—not the easiest to digest on an empty stomach, but impressive in a formal way. I have never run across any of his albums in bargain bins (which is almost exclusively my way of obtaining vinyl), so I bought a new reissue of this one, called “Scott 3”—originally from 1969—and it’s a great record—it’s got a depth to it that’s immediately evident, that puts it among my favorites. It might take me years to even fully take it in, as it’s already changed a bit through a dozen listenings. I haven’t even begun to approach it lyric-wise—though some are immediately undeniable: “You’re like a winter night, your thoughts are frozen, you kiss your lovers in the snow. Too many icy tears glisten for someone. You watch the leaves as they shiver your loneliness, your eyes are lanterns growing dim…”

From the first song, “It’s Raining Today,” I’m fully caught up in it… (“The train window girl, that wonderful day we met, she smiles through the smoke, from my cigarette…”) It’s making me think about what I like about Richard Harris—though without the camp appeal (at least for me) of R.H., but with all the heaviness and weirdness. (I’m a huge Richard Harris fan, which has a lot to do with the songs by Jimmy Webb, so it’s the highest compliment.) The first ten songs are written by Scott Walker (credited to his original name, Scott Engel), followed by three Jacques Brel songs. I do like Jacques Brel a lot, and apparently so did Scott Walker—he’s a big influence—and the songs here are great—but the Scott Walker songs are even better. At any rate, I’m listening to it now like it’s a new love in my life. That’s really the best thing I can say about any music. Occasionally I’ll like a record so much I’ll come back to it and write a second review, and this might be one of those.

The album cover is a good one, too, a giant blown-up photo of an eye (which I’m a sucker for). Whose eye? Seeing how Scott Walker is reflected in the mirror of the pupil, I’d guess it’s a subject of one of the songs. (Wild guess: Big Louise.) The back cover is mostly taken up by a heavy cloud of words—credited to Keith Altham. Is it a poem? No, it’s liner notes, essentially—or closer to a poetic review of this record—much better than this one (you’re reading now). It takes the approach of appreciating the entire album as a literary work. The cover folds out as well, and inside are roughly eleven oval, sepia tone photos—one of Scott Walker, and the rest are illustrations for each Scott Walker song—along with an excerpted line or two—like they’re short stories from the 19th century.

In many ways, the record feels much older than it is, as if it’s, to some degree, timeless. But also, everything about it seems like it could be an absolutely contemporary album—not one that came out in 1969. Also, because he kept doing music into his seventies, you picture Scott Walker as someone who aged into this brilliance and eccentricity. But looking at the dates, you realize that he was only in his mid-twenties when he made this album. Which is crazy—because this is a record that really sounds like the work of an older artist. Maybe he was always old—maybe he’s one of those people—you certainly hear that on the last long, “If You Go Away,” (a Jacques Brel song with Rod McKuen lyrics), which he takes over and makes us believe. On the other hand, maybe you have to be that young and audacious to be that emotionally out there.

A big part of why it’s all so good is that the orchestral arrangements are beautiful and intense, but also kind of weird—you might even say “off” at some points—I don’t mean accidentally—but bordering on experimental—not what you might expect. The music keeps you a little bit unbalanced, and one after another of the slow, melancholy orchestral numbers really keep the haunted mood. And there’s a lot of variety, too, of course, especially due to the theatrical Brel songs that take us to another world entirely. And then, “30 Century Man” is a concise and catchy folk pop number that manages to be completely baffling (and great) in a minute and a half. Amazingly, it all fits together. I guess I’m torn between wanting to isolate individual songs or just take the record as a whole, because the album works so well… isolating songs feels like it cheapens them. But it’s also impossible not to… even individual lines (“She’s a haunted house and her windows are broken.”) The song, “Big Louise,” for instance, is so beautiful, I just feel the need to point it out to the spectral companion in my room. (“Listen to this one!” I say.) “She stands all alone, you can hear her hum softly, from her fire escape in the sky. She fills the bags ’neath her eyes with the moonbeams and cries ’cause the world’s passed her by. Didn’t time sound sweet yesterday? In a world filled with friends, you lose your way.” I’d cry, myself, but I’m, you know, all outta tears.

1.27.23

Jackie Gleason “Lonesome Echo”

There is some crazy string shit going on—which should say it all—but for a more eloquent variation of that assessment, I’ll quote the liner notes on back: “…an exotic string combination: mandolins, ’cellos, and domras (richer, deeper mandolins), augmented by guitars and marimba.” Seeing how ol’ Salvador Dali is involved in this escapade, and I never heard of domras, I figured they might be imaginary—but I looked ’em up, nonetheless, on Emerac, and naturally it is an instrument. But this next part must be from the surreal dreamscape: it claims that throughout the record the featured solo instrument is “the rare oboe d’amour…” That’s got to be rich. But, no, that’s a real thing too—a slightly larger oboe—“whose melancholy tone is hauntingly displayed in each of these favorite selections.” By none less than Romeo Penque—believe it or else. The entire album flows together like a night of haunted dreams, but there’s some standout tracks, as well. Just the ones I immediately recognize include: “I Don’t Know Why,” “Deep Purple” (my very favorite on the record), “Come Rain or Come Shine,” “How Deep is the Ocean,” “A Garden in the Rain,” and “Dancing on the Ceiling” (a song featured in my upcoming dystopian novel). As with all the “Jackie Gleason presents…” mood music LPs, this one is long—no less than eight tracks per side. You may even be able to get to third base before having to flip the record.

Besides the striking concoction of stringed and woodwind oddities, the unique collaboration on this 1955 record is the endorsement of, as I mentioned above, artist Salvador Dali, who has provided the album cover. This is absolutely one of those records you’d buy for the cover alone, if that is something you do. I’ve been guilty of it myself, though I don’t normally endorse the idea—plus, I listen to everything, at least once. The nice thing here is that the cover matches the music exquisitely. It’s probably a well-known one, and you can spot it a mile away (or from across the Goodwill). It’s a barren landscape with a butterfly (or moth) on the end of a cane (or spear) in the foreground, which casts a long shadow on a stone ruin (or a Taco Bell). There is a seashell in the foreground, indicating that we’re near the seashore (or else a desert that used to be the sea, eons ago). Then far-off, there’s a woman wearing an exotic red robe, leaving us (already far enough away, possibly, to be but a memory). And then, beyond her, a mandolin (or is it a lute? I don’t think it’s a domra). If the perspective is to be believed (and why should it be, this is surrealism), the instrument is the size of a small boat. We should not overlook, as well, the shadow sneaking up behind us, on the left, which I might guess is of the artist himself, except there is no telltale Dali moustache in shadow, which leads me to believe it’s Jackie Gleason (though rather thin—but then it is a shadow). The photo of the two of them on back reminds me that I’d love to see a TV show where they drive around the country (or the world) in an open-roof roadster, stopping off at hamburger drive-ins and root beer stands (or local variations). If they unearth those reels from the vaults, I’ll never miss an episode.

1.20.23

Wilson Pickett “The Sound of Wilson Pickett”

I’ve heard a lot of Wilson Pickett music over the years for not having any of his records—well, maybe I did when I was younger—I know I had some compilations with him on them. Anyway, I know his distinctive voice, his singing style, of course—everyone does. I was listening to some of his stuff online awhile back, and I was finding it pretty unsatisfying—so I was trying to figure out why. I concluded that it was too energetic (for me, at this moment in time, I guess) and too chaotic—really busy arrangements—and too loud, too dense—the horn arrangements dominated—well, almost—his singing still dominated, of course—but it was like he and the horns were fighting for domination. Am I wrong about this? It occurred to me that the difference might be the musical format—I mean digital/streaming vs vinyl. Or maybe it was just me having a bad day. Anyway, today is a good day, because this record sounds great.

But it’s not a good day, it’s just another day—in fact, I feel like shit—at least I did until I started listening to this record—and now I feel good—so I’m trying to figure out what I like about this record better than some other Wilson Pickett I’ve listened to recently. This one’s called The Sound of Wilson Pickett, and it’s from 1967. I think it starts with the lack of (prevalence of) horns—how busy the horns are or aren’t—how upfront in the recording, or how jaunty the horn playing, generally. There are horns here, of course, but they’re not as much in your face. Wilson Pickett’s signing is always in your face, of course, there’s no other way. But on this record, it’s all him.

Then, maybe, it’s the songs. The record starts off perfectly with “Soul Dance Number Three”—which I particularly like because it’s really minimal—mostly guitar, bass, drums—the organ and horns are subtle and minimal—it’s a slow and really deep, repetitious groove. It’s my favorite on the record. Then there’s “Funky Broadway,” which is a little more up-tempo, but the same things apply. This side also has “I Found a Love”—one of my favorite WP songs—here there’s Part I and Part II, A and B side of the single, I guess, two and half and three minutes long. And then the last song on the side is “You Can’t Stand Alone” which is a pretty energetic love song, up-tempo and happy—but the best part is the brief organ solo which sounds just pretty crazy—it jumps right off the record. You could hear a lot more of that, but it’s kind of cool that it’s so brief.

The second side could go ahead and not exist—since the first was fully satisfying—but it’s all really good too. “Mojo Mamma” is my favorite—a killer song (written by Jerry Wexler and the great songwriter, Bert Berns).  Then there’s three Bobby Womack songs in a row, and they’re all excellent. The album cover is that weird shade of orange that I can never see without thinking of the Richard Hell record that looks similar to this one. Wilson Pickett is in front, from the waist up, wearing a sharp blue suit—he’s got an emotional expression on his face like he’s pleading with someone, and his right hand is raised in a way that matches the expression. I suppose what it is—he’s singing, expressing the emotions of the songs from the bottom of his heart—though there’s no microphone in sight—so you don’t immediately think “singing.” But who needs a microphone. And on back, some pretty extensive liner notes by someone named Paul Ackerman—actually very interesting—kind of making the points I did, above, though with more knowledge of the situation. He says the production on this record is particularly good, in part because the musicians are from the deep South—and what is avoided is “excessive instrumentation and chaotic sound.” And then the song selection is varied and good, and the WP written tunes (“Soul Dance,” “I Found a Love”) are very strong. So… I’m agreeing with this dude, partly because he’s agreeing with me—that’s often how it works.

1.13.23

Rockin’ R’s “Live at the Rusty Rail”

This one gets five stars out of five without even putting the needle on it, the cover is so excellent—a full-size black and white photo of who one might assume are the Rockin’ R’s—five white guys, three with bangs, 2 receding a bit—wearing their matching costumes. White pants and metallic, glimmering jackets that most resemble space alien garb from Lost in Space. Also, each guy has a neck scarf (can’t tell the color, could be red) knotted tightly on the right side. The middle guy is sitting behind a snare drum, three have electric guitars and bass (Gibson and Fenders)—and the big guy with glasses has a tambourine. The album title is just below in rocket orange. On back there are four small headshots (three women, one guy) that look like they could be for the chamber of commerce, along with the 14 song titles and who takes the vocals on each—some which match up to the photos. There’s a booking address and phone number. And then liner notes by Rosemary Ellis—which I hope will explain some of this. It’s a pretty thorough rundown of who does what, more or less, down to the songwriting (on the originals), booking, answering the phone (437-1886), wardrobe, bowling, and horse shoes. It sounds like a collective, a club, a group of friends, a band, a business venture, a cult, a very small town, a sailing ship—I’ll go with band. This is a follow-up to a previous live album. They played in Northern Minnesota (a lot in Austin) and made their way into Iowa, as well.

The record is very well-recorded (by the immortal Johnny Durham) (I don’t know if he’s immortal, but his name is the most prominent one on the cover)—crystal clear and immediate—like they’re right here in the room with me, half a century later. The crowd is polite and not overdone. There are a few instrumentals, but mostly it’s country songs with the vocals so upfront you can almost tell what aftershave they’re wearing (or brand of chewing gum, with the women). I believe there are seven different people taking the vocals, including two women—and there are some duets. The playing is top-notch, the band is tight, and they don’t get in each other’s way. The singing is all over the place, from pretty competent to emanating from the neighbor’s shower to cracking bar glasses and rendering mirrors askew. I hope I don’t sound mean—as I’m sure some people would be—I love the heartfelt styles here—and there are a lot of them. I have nothing against singing that wouldn’t make it past the first round of the Gong Show tryouts—I’m a singer myself and can’t stay in key to save my life. The one song sung by “Fritz” (pic on back) is a particular varnish-melter—fantastic. The monologue at the end of the Hank Thompson number, “I Came Awful Close,” sung by “Harold,” is pretty inspired: “You guys stick around here, maybe we’ll get some snakes out later on, and we’ll open some of that good old Christian Brothers brandy from the Alpine liquors in Austin and have a really good time down here at the Rusty Rail.” Another real standout is “Jane” singing “One’s On the Way”—a hilarious song—I probably should have known it—which was a hit for Loretta Lynn around this time. Jane isn’t Loretta, but then no one is—but Loretta. Interesting, that song was written by Shel Silverstein—weird, because I just, yesterday (I’m not kidding) looked him up on the Big Board to see a list of the songs he wrote—because I had been talking about him to someone (OK, to myself—I do a lot of talking to myself). But yeah—odd coincidence—and odd coincidences keep the world spinning.

1.6.23

Big Change On This Page

I lost enthusiasm for writing about random songs on this page, so for now on it’s going to be where I post review of vinyl records. I’m leaving up the song reviews that I feel may still be worth reading, below this post.

“Mariners Apartment Complex” by Lana Del Rey

I found Lana Del Rey’s songs to be perfect to listen to while trying to write at 4 a.m.—that time of day when you’re most afraid of death. Somehow I came upon this song, and it took me a while to connect the song (which had entered my subconscious) with the title (which is something right up my alley). I woke up one morning from an extended dream about this song in which I decided I would write an entire novel based on it. So caught up in this dream was I, it wasn’t until I sat down and started typing a new document with notes on the project that I came to my senses. It’s a quiet, beautiful song, and I really like the arrangement—acoustic piano and guitar, subtle drums, and some kind of string synth, it sounds like, that really works. It feels epic, yet it’s only four minutes long. Some of the vocals are almost spoken, which is effective, but can be annoying. The first thing I noticed was the part where she says, “My, my, my”—dropped in, in contrast to her singing voice. I found it so off-putting to be almost repulsed by it—but, as you know, attraction and repulsion are two sides of the same coin—so I kept going back. What is this “Mariners Apartment Complex”—it sounds like an old Los Angeles motor hotel that’s been renovated into overpriced apartments. Only very desperate fuckers by the pool, and there’s at least one person living out the fantasy of oceangoing transient worker turned failed actor turned mid-level drug dealer. (That’s not in the song, but just imagined from the title!) It’s a great backdrop for nautical imagery. The lyrics are so good they work as straight text, as a poem—but even better as a song. The “Venice bitch” pun, while overused (even by LDR, on a single album!), still, is perfect. “Jesus” is invoked twice—the first time with reverence—the second time as an expletive. One of the most perfect pop song choruses I’ve ever heard, so I’m going to paraphrase. “You lose your way, just take my hand/You’re lost at sea, then I’ll command your boat to me again/Don’t look too far, right where you are, that’s where I am/I’m your man.” It gives me goose bumps just to type those words. And it’s much better—I shouldn’t need to add—to hear it—in the context of the song. And it’s even better because I don’t fully understand it—and the most powerful things are those things that are just beyond your ability to fully take in. The “Lana Del Rey” who is singing it seems both wise and confused—a sign of maturity—the more you’ve been around, the wiser you are—and the more confused you get. She’s speaking to a lover who’s at an entirely different level of consciousness. She’s trying to explain, to make it work, and it’s heartbreaking. “Catch a wave and take in the sweetness/Think about it, the darkness, the deepness/All the things that make me who I am.” When you have to go to such lengths, in a relationship, to explain, it’s most likely that you’re already doomed before you’ve left the port. But at least you’re left with—as you sink beneath the waves—a lovely artifact.

“I Bet My Life” by Imagine Dragons

I found a public space where I happen to be on many days where there is what seems to be pretty random music source piped in from unseen speakers. It's a good place to try to identify a random song that I can then delve into. I'm not sure how random, maybe it's some version of the current “Top 40.” Anyway, the other day a song came up called “I Bet My Life,” by a band called “Imagine Dragons.” At first, I thought “Imagine Dragons” was the name of the song—since I couldn't imagine calling a band that name. I suppose it is catchy, but trying to imagine various band members sitting around in a bar going over possibilities for band names—which is how all bands are named—I could not picture this one coming up. “The Terminators? No, there is one. Straight Flush? There is one... plus, no. Imagine Dragons? Hey... yeah!” My research tells me that they are quite popular, very successful. They have a lot of fans. At this point they seem to be four guys in their thirties—so a relatively new band—though, I suppose, as people in their thirties do—they feel like they are as old as the hills. Being “from” Las Vegas, the gambling reference here makes sense—but this song seems to be a heartfelt confessional, a love letter to “you.” It's anchored by a rousing chorus that sounds influenced by gospel music—you could imagine hearing this in one of those new churches that embraces rock music. Hearing only this, I'd guess they are a Christian Rock band, despite the pagan name. But I don't think they are—though at least of a couple of members are, or were, Mormons. I don't think I'll ever come around to this song, so I listen to a few more from the album it's on, called “Smoke + Mirrors”—and I wonder if that's somewhat confessional, as well? A lot of one word song titles. A lot of songs sound quite reflective, about life, and love, and such. Most songs have a really quiet part, and then a really loud part. The sound is very dense—you don't really pick out individual instruments. Even though, on paper, they're a guitar, bass, drums “rock” band—the overall sound is more of an electronic wave of complex noises—I guess this is pretty common for contemporary music. It is very much not my thing, but I can tell there is a pop element in there, so I keep listening until I find a song I like—and it's called, “It Comes Back To You”—a pretty straight-ahead pop song with a nice groove. Maybe this is their “retro” song—I don't know—it's probably fairly revealing to my tastes that I picked out this one. Anyway, one more tiny notch in the infinite impossibility of understanding popular culture—but I'm trying.