Billy Preston “Music Is My Life”

I’m not sure if I remember any songs from this 1972 album from when I was 12—maybe so, because that was apparently an impressionable year for music for me. The first couple of songs sound very familiar, even though I don’t know the songs. Billy Preston wrote or co-wrote everything except for “Blackbird.” This is, by the way, a rare record where a Lennon-McCartney cover doesn’t function as a death-anchor, because he improves the song, at least in my opinion, in spite of a prominent harpsichord (in parts). Speaking of keyboard instruments, the back cover photo is a God’s eye view of BP and no less than ten keyboard instruments—your keyboard geek friend might be able to identify them all (I can’t, except for the Hammond and the Wurlitzer, and I’m pretty sure that one is a Hohner Clavinet—one of my favorite instruments). “I Wonder Why” is an excellent soul number, both political and spiritual. Speaking of God, there are quite a few overtly Christian flavored songs. My favorite is “Make The Devil Mad (Turn On To Jesus).” I do remember Billy Preston either having a heavy Christian period, or always being so, but I’m not going to research his bio and paraphrase it—anyone who’s interested already knows—or can easily look.

What I remember about Billy Preston from my childhood was an imposing looking dude with the biggest afro I’d ever seen. His hair really was impressive—and if you search Wikipedia for “afro,” their first photo example indeed is BP. (This recalls the old joke about looking at the dictionary definition of something seeing someone’s picture… that is almost literally true here!) Then I remember him playing with the Rolling Stones a lot—I recall some pretty excellent photos from Rolling Stone magazine, with the Stones—which lent anyone, at that time, a veneer of danger—though that was mostly mythologizing. Many people, I’m sure, have seen that recent Beatles Get Back documentary, which prominently featured a younger Billy Preston—and so it was really nice for me to see this whole other side of him than I remembered. I used to watch those late-night rock shows like Midnight Special pretty religiously, and also Soul Train, whenever that was on—but I don’t recall seeing BP solo—though it’s likely I did at some point. (A quick check with YouTube, and sure enough—good video, and nice orange suit, too!) “Will It Go Round In Circles” is the song from this record that I know—I heard a lot of that one over the years—it brings back the early Seventies like a time machine. That’s a great song.

6.30.23

Jefferson Airplane “Crown of Creation”

Not having ever heard this album, I don’t think, I was alarmed when the first song transported me right back to my Renaissance Faire days, and besides that has goofy sound effects—though the typewriter is nice. After that, though, the record sounds like Jefferson Airplane, inasmuch as I have an idea of what the band sounds like in my relatively limited exposure to them (I never was a big fan, though I’ve always liked them. But I didn’t have any of their records, growing up). The album cover apparently did not register with me because I accidentally bought a copy when I already had one. It’s funny, they are both worn out in exactly the same way—looking like they were stuck tightly in the same Peaches crate since 1968. There’s a photo of the band huddled in the middle of what looks like a nuclear explosion, though for whatever reason, my brain registered the whole thing as a semi-abstract rendering of a giant chicken head. Also, funny, the photo of the band is altered (and there’s a larger version on back) so it looks like you’re seeing double (funny in light of me buying two of them).

It’s a good record, so I’d be happy to give my extra copy to someone—and I also plan on listening to mine, on occasion, which is, from me, a five-star review. I love their style and their sound—I kind of regret I didn’t buy all their records as a lad. An interesting thing occurred to me, during one particularly laid-back song, and it echoed a thought I had the other day while listening to some hippie folk blues rock (can’t remember what), and that was how I heard a spot that noticeably lagged a bit—that is, there was not that mechanical adherence to time that you hear with music that’s recorded on a digital grid, or however it’s done, now. A little messy, a little lazy, a little intoxicated—I don’t know, but 100% human and soulful. When I’m walking around, hearing music that’s enforced seemingly everywhere, I often find myself getting irritated—not because I recognize it or don’t (I don’t, usually)—why? Maybe it’s because it’s made by machines more than it’s made by humans, I don’t know. Anyway, it would be nice to hear a song from this record in the mall, someday (though maybe not “The House at Pooneil Corners”—unless you’re shopping for survival supplies). Actually, I’d love to hear that at the mall.

6.23.23

Gallery “Nice to Be with You” / “Ginger Haired Man”

I must have picked this one up for the attractive label—looking like a squashed pumpkin—how would it look spinning? Kind of awkward—though it might look good at a much faster speed—like 1000 RPM. It’s the Sussex label—overseas? No, an LA address—I wonder if they’re still there, I’ll look it up, 6430 Sunset Blvd.—big, ugly office building—well, it’s Hollywood. “Ginger Haired Man”—I guess I listened to the B-Side first—sounds a little like a forgotten Tommy Roe song—failed to excite me. So, what’s this A-Side, with the most innocuous title ever. Oh. It’s that song. It’s funny to really listen to it now, because the intro, the solo, even the verses all sound like music—but the chorus… “It’s no nice to be with you, etc.”—is so ingrained in my mind—will that kind of deep programming ever go away? Probably not. When did I hear this on the kitchen AM radio? Every single day while eating my Pop Tarts and dreading grade school, 1972, and then probably on the car radio, and in public—it’s a brain tattoo if I ever heard one. A number 4 hit, so hopefully they made some money—I’m sure they’re nice people. Songwriter, band leader, Jim Gold, from Detroit (probably heard this endlessly on CKLW)—weird, I’m watching a movie directed by Jack Gold—same person? No. I get confused because my dad’s name was John James—so he went by those, but also Jim, Jimmy, J.J., and he called people Jack, so I get them all confused. How’d they ever score that excellent band name? Gallery. Jackpot. That could mean art gallery, rogues gallery, the gallery in a golf tournament (AKA, human backstop), or a shooting gallery—in a carnival—or else the dilapidated, roach-infested flophouse where doomed junkies get together and share dirty needles. Really sorry to bring you down, there! What else? It could be the gallery in everyone’s heart—the place where we display the best of ourselves, our natural brilliance, shining genius, and true love.

6.16.23

Skeeter Davis “Skeeter Sings Dolly”

Just as the title implies, this is an album by Skeeter Davis, and she is singing Dolly Parton songs. Ten songs, all written by Dolly Parton (a few with co-writers), originally recorded by her, of course. It would be interesting to listen to them back-to-back, the Dolly version, then the Skeeter version. Next rainy day. The cover is an exceptional photograph (as goes for most Skeeter Davis records). Skeeter is out in the woods somewhere, or maybe a very nice back yard, looking contemplative, and she’s wearing an incredible looking long dress—all I can say about it is, that’s some dress. Should I try to describe it? No—I don’t think I could pull it off. The liner notes are exceptional—there is a full column written by Dolly Parton about Skeeter Davis, and this record, “…she has paid me the greatest compliment anyone could ever pay a songwriter.” And how much she likes Skeeter Davis personally: “I think I’ll call her sunshine.” She even lets on what her favorites on the record are: “Just the Way I Am,” “Daddy Was an Old Time Preacher Man,” and “Down from Dover.” Then there’s a whole column by Skeeter about Dolly, and how much she loves her songs—“I think she is destined to become a writer whose songs will be sung forever.” Remember, Skeeter was about 15 years older than Dolly, and this record is from 1972, when Dolly Parton was only in her mid-twenties—though, of course, already a big star with over a dozen records out. Skeeter also mentions some of her favorites on the record: “In the Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad),” “Just the Way I Am,” and “Down from Dover” (which she says is her favorite on the album). Since they’re doing it, I may as well weigh in on my favorite songs on the record, as well: “Put It Off Until Tomorrow,” “Fuel to the Flame,” and “Down from Dover.” (I made those picks right while listening, before I read the notes, so as not to be influenced by the ladies.) I guess we all agree on “Down from Dover”—and it is a pretty great song. No reason to pick favorites, though, all ten are good. Though I do have a particular fondness for “Fuel to the Flame.” Dolly and I share a birthday. Skeeter is my all-time favorite singer. Dolly’s from Tennessee, Skeeter’s from Kentucky, and I’m from Ohio. I tried to single-handedly rid both their states of their whiskey. Failed.

6.9.23

Thomas Electronic Organ – “Demonstration Record”

It’s not a band or a song—just trying to keep the heading under control. The full title is: “Here is the amazing new single manual Thomas Electronic Organ. The first luxury organ without a luxury price.” There is no record label, really, except “Thomas”—but it looks like a cool record label—in that “ye-olden thymes” font (not a real name, I’m just calling it that) silver letters on dark blue. I’d be on that record label. I can’t find the date—I’m guessing it’s the 1960s—but I may be wrong. It’s a “Demonstration Record” for their line of home organs—I’m not going into the history of the company or how they compared with similar products of the time—you can find it all online. I can’t resist these promotional/demonstration records, when I see them (if the price is right) just because they are odd artifacts that kind of function as time machines. You can find no end to them on YouTube, of course, but listening to the actual object is a completely different kind of thrill. The narrator is classic—I wonder who that guy is. If you were going to find an actor to play a guy reading narration on an electronic organ demonstration record, this would be your guy. He says things like… “and finally, the diophasing effect…” I’m kind of making that up—I don’t know what he’s saying. He also says, “You can’t make a bad sound with a Thomas.” Maybe that’s about the “Color-Glo System”—or I missed something. I “collect” (inasmuch as I collect anything) versions of the song, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”—just because I’m obsessed with it—partly due to a Thelonious Monk version that may be my favorite piece of recorded music. Anyway, the record starts out with the organ playing that very song. I’ll see if I can identify any other songs. “America the Beautiful,” “Tea for Two,” “Lover” (Rodgers and Hart). There’s another, it’s really familiar, but I don’t know. And it ends with something I’ve never heard before. The record is certainly not collectable, and I don’t think the organs are either—but I read that they did, for a time, have the rights to produce Moog synthesizers—so those might be exciting to find. Here’s a tip—the Model 370 Monticello spinet organ had a synth built into the upper manual—that might be kind of cool.

6.2.23

Steely Dan “The Royal Scam”

Like I said before, since I’m writing about individual Steely Dan songs elsewhere, I’m going to try to keep this review short (short is the new way—at least I’m trying)! So I’m not even delving into lyrics at all here (which is half the fun with this band). This is maybe the most consistent SD record, song for song—nine songs with no weak links—and in fact, as you’re listening to it, you get the sensation that each song is just a little better than the last, just because there is no letup in excellence. In retrospect, and at this point in time, I’d have to say my favorite song on the album is “The Caves of Altamira”—which, oddly, wasn’t even one I thought much about for the first 40 years of putting this record on the turntable. Maybe it was a little to poppy for me with that chorus, or the horns (now my favorite thing on the record), but at some point, something really clicked, and it became kind of a “soundtrack for my life” song. For people who flip out over virtuosity and innovation—for a band that’s never lacking there—this one’s got some real standout musicians—particularly Paul Griffin and Larry Carlton (not to take away rest of the who’s who). It might be the most guitar-heavy SD record, but that’s just one of the distinctive things about. It fits right in with the rest of their records, and actually does sound like a progression between “Katy Lied” and “Aja.”

To try to put this in the context of 1976 is almost impossible, because it doesn’t remind me of anything else from that year—but I’ve got to look—what was I listening to in ’76? Bob Dylan “Desire” and the live LP “Hard Rain”—both of which I can still listen to. Besides those, however, I bought a lot of other records, around 1976, that I don’t exactly put on for pleasure or nostalgia these days! Including: Blue Oyster Cult “Agents of Fortune,” Bob Seger “Night Moves,” Alan Parsons Project—that E.A. Poe record, Al Stewart “Year of the Cat,” Kansas “Leftoverture,” Rush “2112,” Genesis “A Trick of the Tail”—it’s a little sobering to see what records came out that year! Most of it doesn’t date well with me. And there were other bands that I was already completely through with. Of course, then, there was other 1976 stuff that I didn’t come around to until years and years later. (And some stuff I haven’t gotten to yet.) But none of it really feels like it was coming from remotely the same planet as this record.

This could be the best Steely Dan album, and one of the best records in my (relatively small) vinyl collection. It’s not my favorite, but it’s right up there—as it’s a record that never stopped getting better—I mean, every time I put it on—since I first bought it in the vicinity of when it came out in 1976. At that point I did own their previous four LPs, and I remember my 16-year-old self finding this one a bit of a disappointment—not totally, of course—but it just took longer to connect—or maybe I was just through with SD, at that point. I lost patience with bands pretty fast—after a few records I was often done with them, and onto something new. Most bands I’d never come back to, once I was over them. For some reason, though, I came back to Steely Dan as an obsession—partly because of the way they age, compared with everything else—and partly it was just listening more closely, and paying attention to the lyrics. But still, this one did take me awhile.

The album cover didn’t help—being almost too hideous for me to consider any longer than it took for me to place it facing the wall. I have to force myself to look at it even now. Maybe it’s time to reconsider it. There’s a fully dressed man sleeping on some kind of a bench—and collaged above him—as if he’s dreaming them—four urban high-rises, the tops of which have morphed into hideous animal heads. I never really thought about how the creatures aren’t even remotely related—aside from their carnivorous jaws—one is all mouth (what we can see). One is a scaly, fanged serpent, and one looks like it could be in the large rodent family—I don’t know. What I’ve never noticed is the low-key one, top right—without its jaws wide—is rather cute—some kind of a large cat. Anyway, I always thought the sleeping guy was on a park bench—but it’s obviously an indoor resting spot—one of those long benches in the lobbies of big, old buildings, that probably has steam heat radiators underneath it—which might be contributing to the guy’s urban nightmares. The back cover is an extreme closeup of his socks and shoes—and we see that one of the soles is worn through. The inner sleeve has lyrics (extremely welcome with SD records!) and an odd, sepia tone photo of Becker and Fagen—their heads doubled, like a prism—presented in a small (6 inch tall) trapezoid shape. There’s a small, elite group who ever present anything in a trapezoid—so that’s kind of mysterious. It’s also, possibly, the coolest photo I’ve ever seen of Walter Becker. He was certainly, at one time, one of the more mysterious figures of pop music. Donald Fagen was, too (and still is), but here he looks like Tiny Tim.

5.26.23

George Shearing “New Look!”

I’ll pretty much pick up any Shearing record I don’t have, and since they’re abundant and inexpensive, I do have a lot. I’m not sure if I remember even hearing this one—it’s pretty striking in the approach—along with the unmistakable “Shearing Sound” there is an orchestra—strings, as well as brass and woodwinds, and occasionally Latin percussion—he’s throwing it all at us—for renditions of popular music of the time—the time being 1967. There are five paragraphs of liner notes on back with some nuts-and-bolts description of what’s going on here, as well as sounding both like a travel agency brochure and an automobile add. The “orchestrations” are credited to Julian Lee, who I know nothing about, but the Big Board says he’s from New Zealand, which may or may not explain anything. He’s got tons of credits, including lots more Shearing, of this era. If this record is any indication, I’ll look forward to getting those records, too—I love the sound of this record. Modern (I mean, 1967 version of modern), but also dated (in a good way), breezy, cool, but also nostalgic.

The front cover kind of says it all—a young, blond woman in a miniskirt, barefoot—either dancing, or demonstrating how to pitch out of a sand trap with an imaginary golf club. Her dress is pretty amazing—dark blue with bold yellow circles (actually, they could a semi-abstract renditions of 45 RPM records). Plus, a wide, bright yellow vinyl belt. She is standing in front of the lineup of songs in a minimalist font, gold on a white background—and she’s managing to not obscure any. Above her, below the title, it says: “George Shearing with the Quintet and the new sounds of his multi-colored orchestra plays the great new songs.” You’d think he’d reinvented the pizza.

Quite often a misplaced Lennon-McCartney can render an otherwise fine side unlistenable. Sorry to say it—they’re great songs—when performed by the Beatles. I don’t know if people just get them wrong, or there’s magic missing. So, I had reason to be concerned with Side One—boasting TWO, including the dreaded “Michelle”—and “Yesterday,” which is a problem for me, since it was the first and only song I ever learned how to play on piano with both left and right hand parts—and I remember that toil like it’s… yesterday. I think the song will forever remind me of my failure at that instrument. The weird thing here, though, is both songs are great. I’m not going to sit around and try to figure out how they did it—I think it’s just that there’s a fresh and creative approach to every song on this record, and they include some seriously over-recorded and overplayed childhood (mine) AM radio gems, like “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever,” “Strangers in the Night,” “Call Me,” “The Shadow of Your Smile,” and “What the World Needs Now Is Love.” It’s a rare album where there are no bummers, and also, nothing really stands out—except for the somewhat audacious approach. I can listen to this repeatedly and now that I have it out, I may. Of course, as I said before, George Shearing is the sound of my childhood and I’d have to encounter an LP where he really runs afoul before you’re going to hear a dissenting word from (the critical side of) me.

5.19.23

Randy Pie “Highway Driver”

My hobby of buying any record (cheapo, naturally) with the band name (or artist) starting with “Randy” doesn’t always work out for the best. It rarely does—I mean, as well as with Randy Lee—which was a great find of all time. There have been some somewhat bummers in the past, but I won’t go into it. This one (Randy Pie—meaning? Take a stab…) starts out on an alarming note—sounding like bland German Seventies prog rock—and it is from 1974 and there’s a guy in the band named “Werner”—so what’d I expect. The second song is restrained and funky, though, at least until the vocals come in—but it’s at least interesting. Eniac informs me that are a German band, from Hamburg—they put out half a dozen records in the Seventies—this is their second. I do like the bass playing quite a bit—it’s behind what’s good about the songs—as well as the electric piano. Some pretty good flute, too—artful and restrained. Nice keyboard playing all around—someone’s on that Clavinet—which I love—I could just have a Clavinet section in my record shelf. I’m trying to catch some lyrics, which are in English, but what I do hear don’t do much for me—so I skip it. Only seven songs on the record, so they really stretch out on each one. Nice, small band pic on back—all dudes, looking like a 1970s German band. The album cover is a rather odd photo of a bleached-blonde woman with a suitcase, leaning on a gnarly, old truck (implying that she’s hitchhiking)—we get a LOT of foreground in the photo—you never saw so much gravel. Apparently before the days of photo-manipulation because visible is: the license plate (JBH21) and the name on the truck door (A.F. Dutton Ltd./Iver./Bucks)—unless those are intentional but cryptic messages. Also, the building in the background (where the trucker is presumably taking a shit) has a sign in which we only see the letter “N”—and also an uncharacteristically small billboard sign—yes, the never-changing, ubiquitous “Coca-Cola”—which possibly could have been cropped in, and then left in for some kind of an ironic “message”—or maybe Polydor was already owned by the international Coke blowjob cartel as early as this—I don’t really know, nor do care.

5.12.23

Royce Hall Lucky 4 “One More Glass of Wine” / “That’s My Life”

Royce Hall Lucky 4 is apparently the name of the artist and/or band? But what does it mean? “Lucky 4 could be a band with four people (or even three), or it might be gambling-oriented. On the Raynard label, which the big voice tells me was Dave Kennedy’s label—so one might assume this was recorded at Dave Kennedy Recording Studio in Milwaukee, though I’m not sure. The record is from 1967. I can’t find anything about Royce Hall Lucky 4, or Royce Hall (I’m assuming Royce Hall is the guy, as the songs are credited to “R. Hall”). But no photos or bio. I’m sure the info is out there—but deeper than I want to dig late on a Friday in early May. There’s a PLACE called Royce Hall, so there’s a billion photos of that—and every Dick, Tom, and Harry who set foot in it. Anyway, the record: It’s some old-time for real country sounding stuff. “That’s My Life” is almost two minutes, and states the title, plus “since you been gone.” (Every time he goes out and tries to forget “you”—people keep asking where “you” are.) “One More Glass of Wine” is the three-minute epic—and goes: “The more I drink the less I think about her,” and so forth—he’s asking for one more glass of wine to help him drive her from his mind. My only question is, who drinks wine at a bar in misery? You drink bourbon, or maybe beer in those circumstances—if you’re drinking wine to reach oblivion, you drink cheap, sweet wine from a bottle, likely in an alley or under a tarpaulin in the back of a truck. But I’ll let it go—this was 1967—things were nuts back around then. Plus, George Jones sang about drinking wine (“Just One More”), and for a country singer, there’s no better role model.

5.5.23

Frank Sinatra “Come Fly with Me”

One of those Sinatra records that make me think that if Sinatra didn’t exist in real life, he would have been a great invention by a writer and/or an artist—or a team of them. A TV show, comic, movie, comic book, etc. The album cover is perfect—a naturalistic color illustration of Frank in as sharp suit, hat, casual tie, giant cufflinks—dressed for international air travel—and he’s taking the hand of woman—we only see her hand, but I’d guess she’s attractive. They’re on the tarmac of an airport—when you used to venture outside, and up the portable steps to the airplane. In the background we see a TWA plane, the “stewardess” exiting, and further back another plane—one of those big prop planes with three tail fins (the back of the cover tells me it’s the TWA Jetstream Super Constellation). No artist credit on back. The sky shows some clouds near the horizon, but most of it is the bluest blue imaginable. Twelve songs, all pop standards that could stretch into a traveling theme. I like all of them, and they fit together well—my favorites are: the title song, “Moonlight in Vermont,” “Autumn in New York,” “Let’s Get Away from it All,” “April in Paris” (with the intro), “Brazil,” “Blue Hawaii,” and “It’s Nice to Go Trav’ling.” (I’m gonna spell it that way from now on!) The art on the back cover uses some (apparently) actual airline charts and documents, over which there’s an artist’s rendition of some pilot paraphernalia, including a logbook, on which it says: “Pilot: Frank Sinatra” and “Co-Pilot: Billy May” (the bandleader). And there’s a compass, the pointy kind for measuring distances on the charts. There’s also a clipboard with a “Flight Log” that’s got some “handwritten” air-travel related notes about six of the tunes. On the bottom it says: “(over)”—but of course, we can’t turn it over—it’s just a drawing! I suppose you’re invited to write your own.

4.28.23

Three Dog Night “An Old Fashioned Love Song” / “Jam”

Here’s a single from 1971 that really does look like they sent it on that first rocket to Mars, left it blow around out there for a while, then brought it on back with some rocks and whatnot. How did it get in this condition, and why do I have it? I had the LP, Harmony, when I was a kid and trashed it beyond playability, but this Martian 45 still plays, though barely. I remembered writing about “An Old Fashioned Love Song” on this website—so I looked it up—a review of a greatest hits record back in 2018 (the review was from 2018… the record from 1974—but why does 2018 now seem as far back as 1974—or even 1758 or so?) Anyway, I knew I’d write the exact same thing—how something lyrically always bugged me about that song (toward the end), but still, it’s one of my favorite songs of theirs (written by Paul Williams) and hearing it, even now, is, for me, pure Hostess Cupcake Jonny Quest Cedar Point Funhouse Fanta Red Cream Soda Nostalgia. The B-side, “Jam” is an up-tempo R&B jam with a lot of “feel all right,” repetition, and Hammond organ. Where would the world be without that Hammond organ? It’d be like Mars, with shallow swimming pools.

4.21.23

Julie London “Julie Is Her Name”

You could say the same thing about Christie, Andrews, the girl I had a crush on in third grade, my aunt and uncle’s poodle, and probably someone you know well—as well as this singer—it almost sounds like an introduction, doesn’t it? I guess she was acting for a decade before this LP, but it was a hit record—it begins with her biggest hit song “Cry Me a River”—you might remember her appearance, and that song, in The Girl Can’t Help It (1956)—a very weird scene. This is a low-key, smooth, mellow, make-out record—her voice is like vanilla yogurt (way better—I’m kind of sad I used that comparison—maybe expensive Scotch and menthols, I don’t know). She’s accompanied only by guitar (Barney Kessel) and bass (Ray Leatherwood)—and these are some fine versions of some of my favorite standards, including “I Should Care,” “I’m in the Mood for Love,” “I’m Glad There is You,” “It Never Entered My Mind,” “Easy Street,” “No Moon at All,” “Laura,” and more—thirteen songs, no bad ones. The striking cover is a chest up photo of her in front of a light-green background with just a tiny glimmer of a lowcut dress evident (they probably first tried to crop it so she could be imagined wearing nothing, but this was 1955). The liner notes are in a font smaller than my early ‘zines (everyone complained about eyestrain)—an enthusiastic bit by Bill Ballance, and then some real excess by screenwriter Richard Breen: “…there is a sweet impermanence about things; the marigold will lose its yellow; spring will not last forever; not all butterflies will stay genial.” Just that bit says a lot, and he’s really pushing it with the butterfly part.

4.14.23

Bobby Rydell “We Got Love” / “I Dig Girls”

A couple of typical rock’n’roll songs from 1959 from teen idol Bobby Rydell—this was a hit record. They pack a lot into each song, backing vocals, honking sax, barroom piano, and a lot of words. It’s crazy to think about someone having to get up (or stop dancing) in order to turn over or change the record after two minutes and fifteen seconds, but that’s how they used to do it. Bobby Rydell only recently passed away, and it sounds like he kept preforming, as his health would permit, for his lifelong fans. I’ve always known his name but wasn’t a big fan—I missed him by a generation or two—though this could have been a single my parents had. I love the Cameo label—it looks hand drawn—it probably was—plus, it reminds me of my favorite pizza joint (The Cameo), growing up. “We Got Love” is one of those songs that lists a lot of numbers (“five o’clock I call you and by six we got a date”)—clever and corny—but eight children? That’s commitment, I guess. “I Dig Girls” similarly lists stuff—a few body types (he digs ’em all) and then goes into geography—chicks from Tennessee, New York, Chicago, Tallahassee… even Sioux City. And then some specific names (including “you”), and then more types—not real particular. He doesn’t care if she’s a “dream lover” or a “nightmare”—that’s commitment.

4.7.23

John Sebastian “The Four of Us”

I remember buying this as a young teen, I believe at the mall record store (not this copy—but I remember the abstract cover like it was yesterday). I’m not sure if, when I bought it, I was already familiar with John Sebastian from seeing him on TV, either solo or with the Lovin’ Spoonful, singing “Do You Believe in Magic”—hugging that autoharp—which was the nerdiest thing I’d ever seen. But also really cool, in a way, and kind of exciting, because when we started our first band, in 1972, the only instruments we had available to us were the piano, the autoharp, and a gong (as well as improvised percussion). I always thought of him as one of those annoying hippies with glasses (as opposed to annoying hippies without glasses)—but still liked him. I remember thinking this album seemed about half dumb and half compelling—and that’s about how it sounds to me now—though likely different parts are dumb and compelling. The styles are all over the place, but that’s what you get from someone with a lot of influences who gets to indulge a little. When I was 13 or so, I suppose I liked the blues stuff best, but now my favorite song is “I Don’t Want Nobody Else”—just because it’s a particular kind of dated pop song that appeals to me now. Funny, because I’m pretty sure it was my least favorite song on the record, back then—but now I really like it. Just a simple pop song, a little melancholy, very pretty.

Side Two is presented as one song, “The Four of Us”—though, of course, it’s a “suite” of very different songs—but it’s kind of a loose travelogue about these four hippies traveling in a truck, four of them, two men, two women—and I’m pretty sure I got the impression that there was a bit of “swapping” going on—which made me feel gross, back then. It makes me feel gross now, as well—though I don’t think there’s anything in the lyrics to support this—I must have been reading into it, just because of my biases about hippie culture, free love, and all that. On the way, then, they’re meeting some characters, and that gets old, so then they head down to the islands for a bit (steel drums and the like). Restless again, so it’s back, and to New Orleans, electric guitar, some partying, Dr. John and so forth. And then on the road again, a little melancholy, heading out west. Red Wing, Colorado—always my favorite—maybe I pictured that as how my life could have, and should have, progressed. The simple life—so simple that now there’s only two of them. Where did the other two go? But even that gets old, so it’s back to LA and, I guess, “Hollywood”—is LA home? Now it’s “more of us” (babies, I’m guessing, not just ferrets and dogs). Ultimately, as far as I can tell, it’s about the “love of a good woman.” And memories. Bit of lowkey ending there, but at least it’s happy. Had this been a movie of the era, it might have ended with drug overdoses, car accidents, and violence. Glad to hear John Sebastian’s still out there, and he’s still doing music and other show-biz stuff.

3.31.23

Ahmad Jamal “Sun Set”

The first song, “If Not for Me,” starts out particularly understated—you know the song, so when he doesn’t even finish one of the phrases, your mind finishes it, but it’s supremely pleasing in that it denies your expectations, as well as fulfills your expectations. Then there’s a part where a couple of notes are repeated to the extent that if it was a CD, you’d be certain it was skipping, even though this record came out in 1976, and CDs were still on the drawing board, right? (I don’t remember anymore.) Well… certainly when it was recorded, over a decade earlier. But it doesn’t sound like a record skip—so I guess back then, it would probably just evoke a kind of weird but interesting repetition. I know nothing about jazz, really—despite listening to years and years of Phil Schaap’s radio shows—but you don’t necessarily need to know much to enjoy it. Of course, the more you know, the better. It’s kind of funny how opposite I feel about live jazz recordings and live rock recordings. I avoid the rock ones—I can think of very few I like—too much energy with nowhere to go, not to mention inane patter (could drugs have been a factor?) But for jazz, live recordings make perfect sense.

This is a double record—a repackaging from “Chess Jazz Master Series.” It’s put together by a guy named Dan Nooger, who wrote the liner notes. It’s a release of a couple of records that were live recordings from 1958 and 1961—nearly 30 songs. The personal is the same: Ahmad Jamal, piano; Israel Crosby, bass; Vernel Fournier, drums. So… these are recordings of live shows from just before I was born and just after I was born. And for whatever reason, this is music that connects with me like I was listening to nothing but this all my life. I wonder who decided to call it “Sun Set”—rather than “Sunset” or “Chess Set”—interesting. The cover is a picture of, I suppose, a sunset (though, I might have thought moonrise) over some mountains. It’s funny—the picture is roughly the aspect ratio of a movie—but the cover opens up, and then the picture, a landscape, continues onto the back—and becomes the aspect ratio of a CinemaScope movie. I don’t know if that was intentional or not—but I’ll take it.

I don’t know that much about Ahmad Jamal, but I have a couple of his LPs—that I was able to find without mortgaging anything. No doubt I’ll pick up another one. The Big Board says he’s currently 92 years old—and he was born the same year as my dad, in roughly the same geographical area, with partly the same name (he changed his name to Ahmad Jamal in 1950, when he converted to Islam). He started playing piano at the age of 3, and by now has been releasing records for seven decades or so. I suppose by listening to this record enough times I know quite a lot about him (and his bass player and drummer). Hearing a good musician’s music is a direct connection to them—I guess that’s partly why we feel so strongly about music. And for some reason, piano, more than anything else, strikes me as a direct connection to the musician’s mind. Piano was the first instrument I tried to play—and I guess it was the first time I can recall experiencing significant failure. But that didn’t turn me against the instrument, or people who play piano. I might always consider it my one true love.

3.24.23

Bent Fabric “Alley Cat”

I would probably buy any record with a cat on the cover, that’s how much I like cats—the exception being if it’s treated badly or something, like compromised—coerced to perform human activities, like stir-frying or bong hits. Cats are more dignified than that. And this one is a really cute cat… and takes up the whole cover. I think I used to own a copy of this, lost it, and picked up another for a few dollars—you see it in cheap record bins. It’s probably a record that many people have, but if you asked them to describe the music, they couldn’t. (I mean hum the melodies—you know it’s somewhat cornball easy listening piano based instrumentals.) But then, when they do hear it—or Bent Fabric’s most famous composition, “Alley Cat”—brought to life on this record—they’ll recognize it—“Oh, that song. I never knew what the name of that was. That’s the song in that…” (And then they can’t remember.) I suppose that might go for a lot of popular tunes, standards, and jingles. A Danish guy, Bent Fabric was more or less his real name, I think, or close, I think (okay: Bent Fabricius-Bjerre). You wouldn’t make something like “Bent Fabric” up—when you could call yourself Soiled Fabric or Bent Fender or Frank Bjorn (the composer of “Alley Cat”). Or, simply, Bjorn. That’d be my choice. But still, he became a household word, a question on “Jeopardy” (most likely), and recorded a lot of records and soundtracks for half a century (he passed away in 2020). The liner notes by Bob Altschuler are nonsense, but the Bent Fabric photo on back is a classic.

3.17.23

X media – Various Artists Flexi Disc (Rocco Loco / Serious / 12 Year Olds / D. Bush)

This is a multi-artist, 7-inch flexi disc with four tracks—it’s beat all to hell, yet still plays splendidly. I have no idea where I got it—I don’t have a clue. I feel like I may have owned it for several decades. How things don’t get lost is more of a mystery than when they do. I looked it up on Big Brain and 15 minutes of avid searching (my limit) un-earthed nothing. Okay, there is a listing on Discogs—very rare to find something not on Discogs (though, of course, that’s an ongoing goal!) There are even four for sale! All in the four dollar range, plus shipping. The links for the band names take me right back to flexi disc listing. The label and/or title of the disc is “X media”—which also gets me nowhere. No other info on the flexi itself. The printing is black on black. No date, no address, no secret message that I can see visually. I’m forced to proceed by sound alone!

One: Rocco Loco “Cigarettes” – Sounds like a field recording, you hear some cars, some rustling, and a guy who keeps saying something about cigarettes—but I can’t tell what he’s saying at all—it might be French (except for the word “cigarettes”). Two: Serious “Air It Out” – Sounds exactly like recordings I made in the Eighties with friends while we were drunk. Someone’s got an alto sax, someone else has a clarinet, and then there’s some improvised percussion, pots and pans and whatnot—and somehow, they fall into a barely discernable (but definite) groove—and that’s the song. Three: 12 Year Olds “Unbageled Jelly” – This one totally sounds like some recordings we did with my very first band (called the Chinese Electrical Band) formed, incidentally, when I was 12—so it might actually be us? Could be, but how’d they get the tape? (We did totally lose one.) No… that’d be too weird. We had some great song titles (like “Pumpkins Rule My World”) but nothing remotely as brilliant as “Unbageled Jelly”—that’s astounding. I want to figure out how to use the world “unbageled” in everyday life, now, but how? In what context? Of course, it’s probably a company name (like that stupid Untucked shirt co.)—and most certainly a band, somewhere. Four: D. Bush “Tax Break; Gas, Grass or As” – A recording on a very wavery tape recorder (gotta change those batteries!) pretty much just singing and electric guitar—though it wavers so much, the wavering is like an instrument itself. Two songs: the first, there are lyrics (which I can’t make out) and a melody—though it’s not a great melody. The second song, much the same, but I do understand the chorus: “You gotta have gas, grass, or ass, baby” (which, back in the day, motorists demanded of hitchhikers—and always struck me as pretty damn needy). It ends with the most minimal sound collage ever: “the root of the problem is” and “I want to be a criminal”—I kind of admire the restraint, and not going full on “Revolution 9.”

3.10.23

Carole King “Fantasy”

I’d never heard (or remembered I had heard) any of this record, from my favorite (for music) year of 1973. Carole King is such an amazing songwriter, and singer—I could probably hang out on her most boringest day and have one of my most memorable (my fantasy, being a teenager and invited in the studio, where she’s writing and recording, and I’m just taking it in). But, for some reason, back in the early Seventies, I avoided her like homework—I knew no better. This is a somewhat odd record in that there’s a little intro at the beginning (“Fantasy Beginning”), and at the end, “Fantasy End” (outro)—that are intended to tie the whole thing together, I suppose. And there is no space between songs—they just bump into each other—so it’s like one big song (though you have to turn the record over—did I need to say that). Glad the inner sleeve is intact, because there’s lyrics on one side. The other side is sepia version of the album cover—which is like a muted, colorized sepia (really, just blues added). It’s an odd style of photo collage, using a grand piano from the top as a frame in which there’s a street scene—people coming and going—and then a portrait of Carole King superimposed, looking over it all like an angel. From what you can make out of the street, I’m guessing it’s NYC Times Square area, because there’s the Horn & Hardart Automat—which is a cool detail—as well, as some other businesses—and the people appear to be tourists. The back is an even more stylized photo collage—that resembles the educational magazine and book illustrations I’d see in grade school, back around this time. The back is all musicians—likely ones featured on this record—including three versions of Carole King.

I’ve got to say, I kind of got obsessed with this record over the last days, weeks, or so I’ve been trying to figure out what I think. At first it bugged me a little—for no good reason—but with repeat listenings, it’s really grown on me. I guess you could say, lyric-wise, she’s asking a lot of questions. Trying to figure things out—and through melodies and lyrics—that’s as good a way as any. I really like how it all flows together, rather than isolating songs—even though there are some very good songs. Listening to it now, it’s reminding me of different things—soul music from this era, certainly. Oddly, the end of side one (the song “Weekdays”) made me think of my favorite Frank Sinatra album—Watertown (from 1970). This has got me questioning how I listen to music lately—picking these records randomly, and then sometimes I listen to them once—and write about them. But this is one that really benefits from being treated like when I used to buy records as a teenager—when each new one would be a new journey, and I’d really live with it for a while. I guess from now on, I’m going to try to recognize when that kind of listening works better. I’m sure there are people out there who love Carole King more than anyone—who might think it’s odd that it’s taken me so long to love her as much as they do. Well, you know.

3.3.23

Martin Denny “Romantica”

Or, more accurately: Romantica – The Lush and Exotic Sounds of Martin Denny. From 1961. I sure can’t keep track of these Martin Denny records—which ones I like best, which ones I’ve heard, which ones I have, and which ones I’ve lost. There are a lot of them. And I’ve heard a lot. I haven’t yet heard one and thought, “What happened there?” As in, it was inferior. But I also haven’t heard one and said, “That’s way better than the rest!” But there must be both profound and subtle differences between them. (I haven’t heard any later ones.) There must be a good Martin Denny list out there. Should I look? Another time. Another rainy day. What did occur to me is that I might have reviewed this one—so I looked back—no, but I wrote about an earlier one—and wrote almost exactly what I wrote above! Am I a person who just keeps repeating himself? I guess so. I guess I should go back and read my own bullshit once in a while! So, what I decided I’d do, is take the same approach as the earlier one—I’ll listen to it and describe my feelings—the audio journey it takes me on. But first, a quick description of the cover—It’s dominated by a bare-shouldered woman who’s staring right at us, and behind her, a multidose of out-of-focus colored balls—could be pills, or lights, or beads, or balloons, or caviar. I’ll go with the caviar.

The back cover says: “…twelve selections that are ideal for a dream voyage on an ocean of serene romance.” So here we go. Oh, wow, I’m literally on the ocean, in a big ship—I guess it’s dated by modern standards—but would have seemed futuristic when I was one year old. Sixty-some years later, but the same things appeal to me: the salt air, and fish leaping from the sea, and a young woman I see who I focus right in on, as if she was top-billed in a movie or something. In typical rom-com fashion, we don’t hit it off—I guess she thinks I’m old enough to be her grandfather. I say when it comes to romance, the spirt of the heart, there is no age. Sure, as an organ, the heart wears out, but it’s all relative. She agrees to share a cocktail on the foredeck, or maybe it’s not there—I don’t know the names of ship things. We get out of the sun. The sun is intense. Did I say what ocean? Actually, I don’t know, but it’s not the North Atlantic. The weather is balmy. I guess when we reach an island with palm trees we’ll know the ballpark. The drink had pineapple juice, coconut, some other exotic fruit juice you can’t even get at Trader Joe’s. And did I mention rum? Now it is night. There’s a lot of sneaking around, due to the nature of this illicit romance. How was I supposed to know she’s both married and a spy? There’s a guy with a fez slinking around, as well. He takes me to a guy who will forge my papers so I can gain entry to the port we are destined for. While he’s at it, I ask him to change my age—subtract 20 years—why not? That’s what this voyage is doing for my heart. I may pick a new name, as well.

After the intermission, we’re running around the island, me and the woman I met on the ship. Someone is after us, and we dart, and dodge, in and out, through narrow streets, and finally into a small club and out on the back veranda. More rum drinks. I guess the woman saw my forged papers and was fooled by my new identity. I’m in decent shape for all this dashing here and there, as well. Now it’s the middle of the night and we’re telling stories to each other about our past—of course I’m making mine up and I suspect she is, too. While she goes to the bathroom (for like 45 minutes) I have a comic interlude with a man trying to sell me a trained bird that sits on his shoulder. Of course, I don’t believe he’ll part with the bird, but I go along with it and part with a few dollars. Apparently, not only did I get new papers, the guy also put some kind of spell on me to reverse aging, and I’m now a teenager, hanging out in my parents’ Tiki room, with the fishnets and glass buoys and dried starfish. The woman finally comes back from the bathroom. I suspect something funny is going on, but she assures me she is madly in love with me—or would be if I wasn’t too young for her. She says I shouldn’t be drinking all these rum drinks, but I tell her, I’ve already done my time as an old person—just trying to stay alive—but now I want to live! The thing is, I can’t remember my new name—it as too unmemorable—but I can’t remember my old one, either. Perhaps it’s time for another reinvention!

2.28.23

David LaFlamme “White Bird”

This is another record I bought for two reasons only. One, because I never heard of it, the label (Amherst), or the artist. And B, it was $1. The year, 1976, doesn’t inspire my confidence, generally. Around that time, I was going to the record store in a somewhat more informed manner—I would read Rolling Stone magazine, and if there was a new release that a writer I liked said was good, I might buy it. Don’t remember this one. The cover is all white with a blue circle, in which two stylized white birds are crossing their beaks. What does it mean? One might reasonably fear something sinister, Satanic, or even worse. The guy on back, who we presume is David LaFlamme, looks like he could be a chef, or perhaps an actor in the theater, or a watercolor portraitist, or—in what isn’t much of a stretch, seeing how this is a record—a musician. In the musician credits, he’s: “violins (I don’t know if he plays two at once—I’ve heard it can be done), vocals.” Someone named “Dominique” is also listed for vocals. I don’t recognize anyone else (besides Tower of Power Horn Section!) except Mitchell Froom—who I heard a lot about awhile back as a musician and producer (keyboards and assistant producer here).

I might call this prog rock—not sure if that’s right—because there are long songs, and extended flights of complex, virtuosity-ridden, instrumental sections. Some of it, though, is a little closer to R&B based pop, and some more like jazz fusion, I guess—or simply “fusion”—which means nothing and covers a lot of bases. The songs are by LaFlamme (w/some co-writers). I can’t say I love it all—but I can actually listen to it without cringing, and some parts I really like a lot. What’s kind of cool is how much the violin adds to it whenever the violin comes in—it’s a pretty distinctive sound. It’s weird, within a single song, there will be a really compelling part, and then it’ll go off to wanky-wanky-land and lose me—I mean it’s kind of crazy how within a single song you’ll get a little R&B, some funk, some jazz, some pop, some prog—some totally hot section—followed by a bit that’s as flaccid as a leftover dinner salad tomorrow.

It’s a weird record, actually, it really is, but I’m telling you, 1976, even if it wasn’t a great year for music (massive generalization—plenty of great music that year) overall—it was a weird year—and not just for music—for everything. I guess I’m intrigued enough by the sound that I’m switching over to the lyrics a little (I’m always a listen-to-the-lyrics at-a-later-date person), but I’m not finding a whole lot that’s not about “love.” Well, there’s one about “America” (mixed with love)—worst song on the record. This was the Bicentennial, after all. And “White Bird” is about a bird, in its most literal sense—of course it must be metaphorical—maybe about how you need to express your creativity—if you’re stuck just working a desk job or something, you’ll die. Or maybe not literally die. Everyone dies. I’ve probably got that wrong. Maybe it’s about how a man can’t be held down by one woman. I don’t know. I guess “This Man” is my favorite on the record—it’s got an overblown into, and then goes into a very funky section, it’s a hot song. It's about “movin’ on down the highway, lonely on the road, when you’re a superstar,” and so forth. It’s got some nice soloing in it, too—sounds like it could be violin and synth interplay, but what do I know. It’s enjoyable, and I don’t care for 90% of wanky solos—but this in nice.

2.27.23