Patsy Cline “The Patsy Cline Story”

It’s hard for me to write anything about Patsy Cline because I was such a huge fan of her at one time and now, I barely listen to her anymore. Not that I mind listening to her, as I am right now, writing this—it’s just that I don’t normally put on a Patsy Cline record when I’m in the mood for country music, or love songs, or sad songs, or introspection. At one time, I suppose, my love for her had to do with being in the vicinity of “discovering” her—around the time this 1980 LP came out, when I was around 20 years old. It’s a two-record retrospective—one of about a million Patsy Cline compilation releases since her tragic death, at the age of 30, in 1963. I had not been a fan of country and western, in my youth, but my appreciation for it more or less coincided with me becoming a punk rocker (if that makes sense), and also learning about jazz, and also discovering a lot of older music I didn’t know existed.

Quite fascinating to me (and probably no one else) is that at this time (a little hard to believe it was 40-some years ago), I was an enormous fan of The Clash, James Brown, and Patsy Cline—and now I barely listen to those three. It’s not that I don’t have an appreciation of them, on paper so to speak, even love for them—but I’m just not feeling it. Well, The Clash is most confusing to me. It’s almost like I’ve turned against them. (I know, it’s silly.) If someone put on a good James Brown record right now, I’d probably be into it—it’s just that I never choose, these days, to put on James Brown. And I’m listening to Patsy Cline right now, enjoying the music thoroughly, but I don’t feel it the way I once did—so I guess that’s the point. Sad but true.

It’s interesting—when a song comes on that I don’t know that well, such as, “Imagine That,” I appreciate that one a lot more than all the usuals—the big ones that everyone knows—which I don’t need to mention. I suppose that I’ve just heard some of them way too many times—and just wore out the parts of my brain where they reside. Partly to blame, I guess, are movies and TV shows—who will, on occasion, allow one of these songs to do way too much work. “Back in Baby’s Arms” is a good example. I wouldn’t mind never hearing that song again. “She’s Got You,” however, I still feel a fondness for—I liked that one so much I learned to play it, and did (for myself, only) quite often. I can still remember the revelation of “Leavin’ on Your Mind”—my first hearing that—even if I can’t feel it in the same way. “Crazy” is undeniable, but I’ve just heard it too many times. “Sweet Dreams” was always my favorite, and I guess I can’t forget that. It’s still got a little furnished cottage in the nostalgia region of my brain. And… to end on a positive note, there’s the song, “Why Can’t He Be You”—that one’s a killer, lyric-wise, and the way she sings it sure is fine. That might be my favorite at this point. And maybe, if I’m lucky, and some years pass, brain cells under the bridge, just maybe I can come around to all of them again.

9.8.23

Gerd Zacher - Mauricio Kagel / Juan Allende-Blin / György Ligeti – “Phantasie Für Orgel Mit Obbligati” / “Sonorités” / “Volumina” and “Étude Nr.1 (‘Harmonies’)”

It’s vacation time and once again I’m staying in a remote cabin in the “North Woods,” far from the heat of the city and the oppression of the internet. No sports scores, no race results. There’s a deck of cards, which can function as a prayer book, or a deck of cards, and there’s a bottle opener screwed into the wood above the sink. There’s an old record player which is probably the most newfangled thing there, and there are a few LPs. First, I get hung up on Patsy Cline and my memories (of Patsy Cline), but then I see this old, odd album I know nothing about stuck in with the all-too-familiar Mitch Millers and Herb Alperts. Its cover has seen better days and the liner notes are entirely in German! Yet it plays great—it seems to be some really sturdy German pressed vinyl—or maybe it was only played once—that’s what it looks like, and it’s been protected in a high quality, Deutsche Grammophon Gesellschaft (that’s the label) paper and plastic sleeve.

The glossy orange cover is topped by four bands of increasingly lighter, yellow orange. It’s nice. There’s a blue dot that I, at first, think is part of the design (it’s quite pleasing, compositionally), but then I see it’s a hand-marked price sticker (1.50—not sure if that’s dollars, euros, or Deutschemarks). There’s what looks like a “coffee cup ring,” also nice compositionally, clever—yet, I think it’s “real”—someone used this cover as a coaster. Under the label logo, upper righthand corner, in heavy black letters it says: avant garde—its placement leads me to think it’s a series. Though… there’s no indication of that on the label, itself—where it does say GEMA—which should be a word, in English, but is not. Then, as a “title,” there are six lines of text, all lower case, some of it names, and some in German, and what seems to me far more punctuation than could possibly be necessary. The only real clue to what’s here comes from the label itself. Side A is: Mauricio Kagel performing “Phantasie für Orgel mit obbligati,” and Juan Allende-Blin doin’ “Sonorités.” It also says, “Gerd Zacher, Orgel,” but in smaller letters, like it’s an afterthought. Side B, then, has György Ligeti “Volumina,” and “Étude Nr. 1 (‘Harmonies’).” Once again, Gerd Zacher, Orgel, so maybe it is important. Mulling this over… for some reason I remember to take one of my prescription antacids (one a day). Isn’t Zacher a kind of pastry? Now I’m hungry.

So, now, for the record. It’s primarily organ, but scary organ, horror movie stuff, though more scary than that—like the scariest movie ever? Could “Orgel” be a mashup of organ and ogre? And might Gerd Zacher be the German Zacherley? There are other sounds, too, like sound effects, occasionally, somewhat disturbing. A lot of silence, too—really quiet parts, along with some stretches of near silence, which I find quite effective. I make the mistake of checking out the back cover again and to my dismay, I notice that the liner notes have been translated! Could this have happened since I looked at it last, or did I just think it was German, at first? I haven’t been drinking. Oh, maybe it’s both—the problem is, the font is so miniscule, in the low light in this cabin (drafty oil lamp, and so forth) it’s really hard to read. It’s a smaller font than some of my early zines, which everyone complained about. But I have to do my duty and try to make sense of this. The text is by Dieter Schnebel, and the first thing I see mentioned is musique concrète, so now it’s beginning to make more sense, as there are some tape-recorded things—it sounds like some voices (can’t make out what they’re saying), and now it sounds like we’re on a transit system. Then back to the organ. One organ note, held for a really, really, really long time. The second side, then, more of the same. Some really loud organ, like one chord held until it hurts. I don’t want to say something dumb like, “I could play that,” well, because I couldn’t. I have neighbors. I mean, they’re like a mile down the road, but I’m going to take a wild guess that they have guns. Now dude’s rockin’ out (I’m assuming it’s a dude). I’m thinking about those rock stars in the Seventies who would pretend to “fuck” their organ, which got old. Or, like Keith Emerson—I remember him pulling that big, old Hammond organ over on himself, like it was crushing him. Am I misremembering that?—because that would crush you. Now we’re to the point where it sounds like nothing so much as that part in 2001: A Space Odyssey when it gets all psychedelic—deep space, I guess. I miss the recorded sounds from the first side. I want to listen to that over again—Schnebel mentioned a toilet flushing (I probably thought it was mine, except there isn’t one here) and an egg timer—which is what, exactly?

9.1.23

The George Shearing Quintet and Orchestra “White Satin”

I’ve written about many George Shearing records here, but I won’t stop until I touch on them all—he’s one of my favorites (I won’t go into that whole childhood business, again). I was thinking, if I ran one of those retro cocktail lounges—you know, classic style, very dark, no chocolate martinis!—I’d play nothing but Shearing. Well, not exactly true, but I’d stay away from digitally remixed lounge music, or cleaned up jazz standards that make you feel like you’re in a doctor’s office. One good thing about George Shearing is you can find beat-up vinyl copies of his records for next to nothing, and they sound great—and would be the absolute best sound for cocktail lounge ambience. This is another really good one, from 1960—probably one of the smoothest sounding records I own—it’s the Shearing Quintet (musicians not credited here, but includes bass, drums, guitar, and vibes) along with an orchestra conducted by Billy May. The 12 songs on this record blend into a seamless evening of silky music (I’ll keep it in mind if I’m ever dating again) including some of my favorites. “Laura,” “Dream,” “How Long Has This Been Going On,” “There’ll Be Another Spring,” “There’s a Small Hotel, and “Moonlight Becomes You.” I love his albums titles—I’ve already written about Latin Affair and Black Satin and Burnished Brass. Here’s a few more (believe it or else) that I’m still waiting to come across: Soft and Silky, Latin Lace, Satin Affair, Velvet Carpet, and Blue Chiffon. It may sound like I’m making those up, but no. And there’s plenty more.

I found this one at a thrift store, probably a dollar, and the vinyl happens to be in excellent condition, but the cover is one of the most hilariously beat up I’ve seen—it looks like it spent time in a barn, yet still cared for. The front is almost totally separated from the back, which has an informational promo sticker (with song credits) in one corner, along with a lot of cryptic markings from previous owners. The front is the usual Shearing cover, a lovely woman with a lot of hair (in this case, red), and she’s, surprise, wearing white satin and reclining on more white satin. There are more markings, some initials, a date (6-26-60—I was five months old!), a $1.99 price sticker, and hand scrawled: 25 cents, right on the woman’s shoulder! The funniest thing, though, is that someone glued a carefully cut piece of pink paper over the part of the woman’s chest that’s not covered by the dress. Naturally, I had to find a photo of the album online for comparison, and of course there isn’t that much bare skin revealed—but someone not only took offense, they were careful to make their alterations in a manner respectful to the original photograph. If you don’t know the cover, or look closely, you might be fooled, thinking the glued paper actually is an additional garment! 25 cents, ha! This album cover is priceless—it should be recognized as a masterpiece—and be hanging in the museum of found/altered art!

8.25.23

Skeeter Davis “Singin’ in the Summer Sun”

I’m glad that my magic eightball planchette thingy landed its arrow on this 1966 record for review in the summer—it would have felt weird in the dead of winter—for obvious reasons. The album cover is a nice painting of a blond woman at the beach—obviously supposed to be Skeeter Davis, though it doesn’t look like any picture I’ve seen of her—but that’s okay, I guess. She’s in the foreground and, oddly, in the background the sky is mauve! And there is just the slightest glimpse of water, as if we’re looking over a big dune. The funniest thing is there’s a group of four young people, and one is a guy sitting in a chair with an acoustic guitar and a shirt with red and white vertical stripes like he’s one of the Beach Boys. Maybe he is. The usual 12 songs, and seven contain the word summer, two have the word sand, one boardwalk, one lifeguard, and one sunglasses. You’ve heard a lot of these, of course, by other artists, but Skeeter Davis has a way of improving on even the most over-recorded tunes. (I honestly think she could have done an entire Lennon-McCartney record and it would have been good.)

May favorites here are… all of them—but there’s a few worth mentioning again. “Dixie Cup of Sand” (John D. Loudermilk)—first time I’ve heard that song—is kind of weird and good. The most jaunty (and that’s sayin’ something) version I’ve yet heard of the massively over-covered “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters)—with a kitchen sink of extras—on paper that sounds like a disaster, but it actually makes me like that song again. “That Warm Sumner Night”—with cricket effects—great song. “(Theme from) A Summer Place” has one of her excellent, signature talking parts in it. Her version of Gershwin’s “Summertime”—the world’s most covered song—is one of the stranger takes I’ve heard (I even like it better than Lana Del Rey’s and Iggy Pop’s versions)—it makes the song new—and it’s even a little creepy. A version of The Shangri-Las’ “Remember (Walkin’ n the Sand),” is also weirdly atmospheric, a little odd—including weirdly off seagull effects. Her rendition of Chad & Jeremy’s “A Summer Song” is one of the more sadder and bubblegummier sad bubblegum songs I can recall. “Sunglasses” (Loudermilk again) I know from another of her records, and I always liked it—good lyrically. “That Summer Sunset” (Sandra Rhodes) is a song I don’t know at all—and it’s just about my favorite one here.

The other funny thing with this record is the extensive liner notes by Gerry Wood (Vanderbilt University) about what they went through to get this record on vinyl—I won’t go into it all—you’ll have to buy the record and spend a warm evening with your reading glasses and the back cover. But it has to do with Skeeter being hospitalized for exhaustion (a reminder that I really have to get around to reading her autobiography!) then, producer Chet Atkins selecting songs with Skeeter—but vamoosing to the Caribbean without telling anyone what songs (and Skeeter’s too out of it to remember). Meanwhile, new producer Felton Jarvis forges ahead with his own selection of songs—and the session going ahead with Ronnie Light singing—and then the engineers removing his voice—and Skeeter recovering… Okay, I just said I wasn’t going to recite it…  and there I go… Well, the record speaks for itself.  I’ll stop now. But first, I’ve got to add my favorite detail, when Skeeter woke from “medicated” sleep and said, “Bring me a cheeseburger and some pink thread.” Which strikes me as one of the more Skeeter Davis Skeeter Davis stories I’ve heard.

8.18.23

Joe Wong “Nite Creatures”

Once in a while I feel like the best approach to an album is to put myself in the cinematic flow of the feelings I get as it takes me along—it’s usually a record I like, as I do this one. It works best when I get the sensation that I’m watching something—not necessarily a movie or anything narrative, but not abstract either. It’s often my most enjoyable version of a journey—neither weighed down by dramatic convention nor floating on an unhinged dreamscape—but something in-between—maybe a combination of memory and discovery. At any rate, it’s more fun than trying to isolate instruments or nail down influences. I can make out the lyrics, here, but there’s no lyric sheet included, which is sometimes good because the lazy approach is to isolate and analyze text. But first… this is a 2020 release—the Decca label looks like an old one, but the vinyl is heavy-duty, the way the kids like it. The cover is nice—a double exposure of either Joe Wong and Joe Wong, or Joe Wong and Crispin Glover (though, that would make no sense, but such is the nature of double exposures). Joe Wong and Mary Timony are credited with most of the sound—along with a few guest artists, and some orchestra. If I’m going to use one term for the music, I’d say psychedelic pop. Side 1 ends with a lock-groove. I wish Side 2 did, as well—in fact I wish all sides of all records ended in lock-grooves, seeing how I don’t have an automatic return turntable.

Okay, I guess I’m in Los Angeles, a town—whenever I visit—that I fall in and out of love with, within a week’s time—a microcosm of my relationships. It’s over. What a good place to start. I’ve reached absolute bottom, and now I’m walking. Well, that’s what one does in L.A.—not drive, that’s a myth—which is good because whenever I’m driving in a dream it’s all about not being able to hold a tight corner at high speeds. I’m walking along the boardwalk. Is there a boardwalk somewhere? Maybe I’m not in L.A. after all—never did make it to the beach. I come to a church, but it’s an old one, like a mission—not one of those new, drive-in ones. I either begin to pray or pretend to pray—I’m not sure—but then it occurs to me that it doesn’t make any difference. Did you ever dream in church? Did you ever kiss someone in a church? And why am I dressed in a cowboy costume? I was named after Randolph Scott, who looked comfortable in cowboy gear but miserable in a suit. I stop at a busy and hip pizza place, now, on a street populated with hustlers and insane dreamers—but I’m not eating—I’m taking in smells, perfumes, flowers, pizza—I can live on the wafting odors—which connect directly to the part of my brain that resides in heaven. Past midnight, now—adventure. I’m in a car, as a passenger—it’s an open convertible. We’re going somewhere—a surprise—there’s fear and anticipation. Then… the lock-groove of death.

The next morning, I’m walking along the beach. Finally made it to the beach! Something (could it merely be a good night’s sleep?) has made me feel invincible! I can do anything I want to do. Well, short of surfing—but I like watching the surfers—for once they’re not annoying, but beautiful. Well… I guess I’m performing my own version of riding the waves. Yeah, but it couldn’t last. Now I’m stranded in the haunted hills, and someone lent me some shitty sunglasses that allow me to see every single thing that happened here in the near and distant past. I’m a passenger once more, this time in an old VW bus, taking the hilly curves way too fast—though maybe we’re actually gliding just above the road. How’d I end up with these cats who are each dressed in a different satin rainbow color? Fortunately, they let me out at my girlfriend’s house (to be clear, this is a woman I’ve never met—yet she seems to know everything about me). She is absolutely everyone I’ve ever known condensed into a B-movie actress. As the sun is setting, now (in the east, for some weird psycho-geographic reason), I’m walking in slow-motion through lovely, old Union Station, lit, tonight, exclusively with candles. The huge, antique train is waiting for me, steaming and shaking, like a giant horse, and I pretty much am certain that once I get on it, all of this will be lost. Except for, you know—not the memories—but a single pearl—that they tell me… if you roll it ’round a roulette wheel it will never land. That’s all, folks! Thanks, Joe Wong, for the dreamy trip, and the trippy dreams. Keep ’em coming.

8.11.23

Swingin’ Medallions “Double Shot (Of My Baby’s Love)” / Sir Douglas Quintet “Mendocino”

The Boss turned me onto this song back in the late Seventies when I, at that point in time, related a lot more to double-shots than “my baby’s love”—though, honestly, I wasn’t drinking shots in bars (just huge red plastic buckets of shitty 3.2 beer) (that was a thing, in Columbus, Ohio). As far as hard liquor, I sipped it, savored it, whether or not with ice, from an old-fashioned glass. I’ll come right out and say it, probably the reason I (many of us, boys) drank so much, is because of the multiple layers of anxiety around the thoughts of impending sexual relations. Drinking was something that I could get a grip on—I felt in control—and the more I drank, the more I was in control—until I wasn’t. The song starts out with a hangover—well, actually, it starts with a catchy Farfisa riff and party sound effects, which is why Springsteen called it “fraternity rock.” If you listen closely to the lyrics, it’s not about drinking at all—it’s metaphorical—and it’s not even necessarily about sex—more likely, bubblegum love—but he’s saying that this girl he’s in love with affects him in a similar way to excessive drinking. The record is from 1966, but the song was first recorded a few years earlier by Dick Holler and the Holidays—great band name, though not as great as The Swingin’ Medallions, which I used to think was the best band name I’d ever heard (before I’d heard of The National) (I’m joking). They were from South Carolina, the only state I’ve never set foot in (besides them new ones).

This 45 happens to be one of those cheapo reissues (the label says “SMASH” and “ALL THE SMASH HITS”—which is redundant, but anyway—2 bands for the price of 1). So the B-Side is the Sir Douglas Quintet, a Texas band, singing about “Mendocino”—which is pretty far up the California coast—a place known for its natural beauty. I’ve never loved the song, but it makes sense here, as it also employs a cheesy organ and is to some degree a “fake live” record. It’s a love song (what else) as well—and maybe it’s not literally about Mendocino, but a “Mendocino state of mind”—I’m just speculatin’ here. Well, there’s also a reference to some dude with “strange red eyes”—so maybe it’s an early zombie song—not The Zombies, the band, but a song about zombies. Probably not.

8.4.23

Michael McDonald “That Was Then, The Early Recordings of Michael McDonald”

The title says it all, I guess—what this 1982 compilation contains. The song listings on the back cover are in two groups—the first says: “previously released as singles,” and the remaining four songs say: “previously unreleased.” You all know Michael McDonald. I have to say, there was a time when I wasn’t a fan of the guy because I felt like he was the more “commercial” side of the Doobie Brothers—not that he ruined the band or anything—I didn’t care, I was already over them once I started listening to punk rock, I suppose. But as the years go by and I’m less tolerant of generic blues-based rock and more appreciative of the subtleties of mellower sounds and all forms of soul influenced pop, I’ve come around to Michael McDonald. And he is a fine singer. Not to mention his major contributions on Steely Dan records. This is a nice, listenable collection—my favorite songs tend to be the slower, quieter ones like: “It Don’t Matter Now,” “When I’m Home,” “I Think I Love You Again,” and “Dear Me.” The album cover resembles one of those repackaged cassettes you’d buy at truck-stops, a real cheapo look, crap fonts, liner notes on the front, and very little credit info other than producer and string arrangements. The nearly abstract illustration on front, MM at a piano, from the back, is kind of nice, but the way it’s framed by large swaths of an ugly clay-red color makes it look like packaging for home goods or something—not a work of beauty or art. But sometimes with records, they’re just really ugly—so you’ve got to keep an open mind, because occasionally that’s where you might find some rarities and gems, like here. I’ll definitely be putting this one on—next date night.

7.28.23

Alice Cooper “Muscle of Love”

This is an oddball record in my LP collection—in more ways than one. First of all, the strange packaging—the album cover is a corrugated cardboard shipping carton—the kind of box you might ship an LP in, to this day—but it is the cover—it has the title and band name and other info printed in red—so it really does look like a shipping box. I’m sure my 13-year-old self caught on, but it might have confused some people. Also, I seem to remember there was a water stain on my cover—and I think I spent half my life thinking it was water damaged, but now, on the internet, I see that there was an intentional “stain” as part of the design, which is kind of next level. Even weirder, on my copy, after all these years (50 years!) the stain has disappeared! Could that be possible? Did it just fade? And weirder still, the full-color inner sleeve (and supplementary materials, later on those) both seem to be water damaged. Were they intentionally fake water damaged as well, or did they actually get water damaged (but how could they without the corrugated cover getting damaged)? Or did they just get really worn over the years (50 years!) by being inside a corrugated cardboard album cover on record shelves? It’s a real head-scratcher—still a bit of a grand mystery!

The other odd thing about this album cover is that it’s been signed by Alice Cooper—the only one of my albums that I’ve ever had signed by the artist, or anyone. How this came about is pretty funny—a number of years back my brother was working at this very nice golf course in Ohio, and Alice Cooper, an avid golfer, was coming through and asked in advance for someone to play a round with, so my brother jumped at that opportunity. It sounded like they both had a good time. Not having his own AC record in his collection, he took along my copy of “Muscle of Love” (I had a lot of records stored at his house at the time) for the rock star to sign, with a Sharpie, on the brown cardboard cover. I admit, it gives me a bit of a thrill, since I’ve always been an Alice Cooper fan (though, never saw him live). I’ve never really been one for autographs (got a few from Cleveland Indian ballplayers when I was a kid), though, so this is rare for me. But this reminds me of something I’ve been trying to remember for years—the one time I went to one of those record store signings, where you stand in line, meet the musician. I went up to Cleveland—this was the early Eighties—and Lou Reed was doing a signing. He was my all-time hero, so why not (also, sadly, never saw him play live). Anyway, I took something ODD for him so sign—and I can’t remember what it was. Apparently, it was a little unusual, because I remember the funny look he gave me—the amused, unreadable smile—I felt like I surprised him a little. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was I had him sign—much less where it is now! (A side note: I just heard that Tony Bennett passed away. I did, actually, once, see him live.)

Back to the record. I was surprised to realize this LP actually came out the same year (1973), but after, Billion Dollar Babies—just later that year. Even though I feel like I’m a pretty big fan, the only three AC records I’ve owned were these two and School’s Out (1972) (previously reviewed here, November 2017). I was too young, maybe, for the four records before these—and after this one—I didn’t buy any more. So, I guess I’m not that big of a fan, really—but then, in general, I suck as a music fan. I pretty much move on from artists after a few records, pretty consistently—not all that different from my love life—ha! Anyway, they really went all out with the packaging on these three LPs. Besides the nutty cover of this one, the inner sleeve—one side—is a photo of the band wearing sailor suits in front of the “Institute of Nude Wrestling”—did such a thing exist? They’re paying lots of money to a “little person” and “lady of the night.” There’s also a guy in a suit walking out of frame—who is that guy?! (Leave a comment, please!) It was maybe the next year when the Rolling Stones did a video for “It’s Only Rock’n’Roll”—wearing sailor suits—so, around this time, I was wondering, what exactly did sailor suits mean? (It was several years, still, until The Village People’s “In the Navy.”) On the other side of the sleeve is the quite gruesome depiction of the bloody and mangled band members after their realization that the “live, nude, female” they were paying to wrestle was actually a gorilla. Funny bit. If that wasn’t enough, also included was a paper book cover. Back then, it was often a requirement to make book covers (usually with paper shopping bags) to protect your school textbooks. This one includes all credits for the record, more photos, including the band, as sailors again, peeling potatoes, and an official logo for the “Institute of Nude Wrestling.” I apparently didn’t use my book cover, since it’s intact—either I wanted to save it (for this day), or I was embarrassed to go through school with such a thing emblazoned on my social studies book!

As for the songs—a little uneven, but they’re all okay, and some are really good. At the time I bought this record (1973), I’m not sure that I knew that New York was “The Big Apple”—because I recall being confused why someone would have a song called “Big Apple Dreamin’ (Hippo)”—also confused by the reference to Ohio—and really had no idea about the “Hippo” part—still a few years before the internet, or me personally exploring the underbelly of “The City.” The whole record confused me, actually—it just didn’t quite have the vitality and insanity of  “Billion Dollar Babies”—though, now I’ve come around to it—just for what it is. “Never Been Sold Before” starts out sounding a lot like an early KISS song (I mean that in the best way), though KISS’s first LP was still a year off. But then horns come in, and a good chorus—and it sounds like Alice Cooper. The biggest confusion of all was the song “Man with the Golden Gun”—which sounded exactly like a James Bond opening number—but then, that movie opened, and there was an entirely different song, sung by Lulu—which always sounded like a soft-porn Bond parody to me—but very little about that movie makes any sense at all (except for Christopher Lee). Of course, from the first time I heard the name of the title, “Muscle of Love,” it was clearly a clever reference to the penis—but in the song itself, did he sing “my heart’s a muscle of love?” Was I wrong? Of course not. There are a lot of good songs on this record—my favorite is “Teenage Lament ’74”—which I didn’t really relate to at the time—the age of 15 seemed way far off, and I couldn’t really see myself quite in with the “cool kids” (the one singing this song) quite yet. They are good songwriters, and they could play rock’n’roll. Great background vocals on this record, too—credited are: Labelle (Nona and Sarah), Liza Minnelli, The Pointer Sisters, and Ronnie Spector! My inclination is to say that Alice Cooper of this era is vastly “underrated”—but then I’d sound like one of those geniuses in the YouTube comments—ha!

7.21.23

Norrie Paramor’s Orchestra “Amor, Amor!”

The full title of this 1961 thrift store classic includes: “Great Latin Standards” by Norrie Paramor’s Orchestra—which is effective in telling you what this record contains (great Latin standards), and you might know some of the song titles—I didn’t, but some of the tunes sound familiar. But who is Norrie Paramor—certainly that couldn’t be a real name? The liner notes on back might tell me. He’s a “unique” arranger, favored by the “international set”—and he has a “special British touch.” Not much else needs to be said. The instrumentation includes a Latin rhythm section, a solitary French horn, piano and celeste and the occasional voice of soprano, Patricia Clark. She is from Scotland (I’m resorting to the internet now) and is definitely not the woman on the album cover, who frankly looks a little demented. I mean, in a good way, and I think that’s what they had in mind—you know, “Amor, Amor!” Norrie is a nickname for Norman (I’ll have to remember that), AKA “B-Side Norrie.” I’m laughing because that’s what it says on the Wikipedia—not sure what that means. This is hot record, and would be just right for, you know, “dancing the beguine, merengue, or cha-cha.” It creates an atmosphere, and is also somewhat cinematic, so I’m not surprised to see that Norrie Paramor also did film music—and I’ve got to list a few of the films here, because it’s been a while since I’ve seen such a lineup of demented sounding titles (and no, I’m not making these up). “Serious Charge,” “A Pair of Briefs,” “The Fast Lady,” “The Wild and the Willing,” “Two and Two Make Six,” “My Lover, My Son,” “No My Darling Daughter,” and “Father Came Too!”

7.14.23

Pagans “Dead End America” / “Little Black Egg”

High energy, stripped-down, snarly punk songs from 1979 era Pagans on Drome Records. The B-side, a cover of The Nightcrawler’s “Little Black Egg,” doesn’t do much for me, but “Dead End America” is an approximately 2 minute definition of punk rock. I especially like the weird throbbing noise between vocal lines that sounds like water being agitated in a rubber bladder, but I suspect is something the bass might be doing. (The bass player, Tim Allee, was very good.) I saw the Pagans play a few times—it was at a club in Cleveland, or Lakewood, on Detroit, just west of W.117th. I might have bought it at a show—or was there a record store next to the club?—I don’t remember. It’s a striking pink and black label, and there’s a heavy paper cover with a reproduction of a 1978 Cleveland Press newspaper clipping of the Jonestown Massacre. The other side is a photo of singer, Michael Hudson, and some credits. It was put out by Johnny Dromette, a kind of punk impresario back then—I heard lots about him but don’t think I ever met him. I also had the single with “What’s This Shit Called Love” (my fav), but I lost it somehow. My friends and I regularly drove to Cleveland from Sandusky for punk shows, and we saw the Pagans as much as anyone—they were a fun and menacing band—not real approachable—they were the cool kids. I remember when they returned after a tour, and now they all had long hair, and them not giving a fuck impressed me, at the time, as the most punk thing ever. I feel like the club had a different name, but I can’t remember it—but it was eventually The Phantasy NiteClub, with the pirate ship inside—saw a lot of shows there. Mike Hudson went on to do a lot of writing. He passed away a few years back. I read his book, Diary of a Punk—it’s excellent, worth reading—and seems to be hard to find now. I gave my copy to my niece—I hope she kept it!

7.7.23

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