Laura Nyro “Christmas and the Beads of Sweat”

I’m continuing my project of writing about all the Laura Nyro records—I mean, of course, when their number comes up. I believe I’ve written about one, so far—I should re-read what I’ve written, so I don’t repeat myself, but I’m not going to—I’m not lookin’ back, baby. I am, however, taking my time. Her records, I feel, are like certain food—let’s say, Marmite, which is excellent and cool, but if you start putting in on everything from toast to eggs, rice, potatoes, and what have you—even popcorn… it might well turn on you. I don’t think I mentioned seeing that David Geffen documentary somewhere. The most interesting part, for me, was the part about his working with Laura Nyro—it sounded like he was her biggest fan, maybe obsessed with her even, and then (as I’m remembering) she kind of abandoned him and went with Columbia records. I found it pretty heartbreaking, and it gave me a soft spot for Geffen. But you can’t blame someone, either, for signing with Columbia, no matter who they are—that’s like a lifetime goal. (Though personally, as far as surface aesthetics go, Columbia is my most dreaded label.)

I have the desire to not approach this record song by song, even though there are lyrics on the back—rendered in a font called “Barely Legible Diary”—I’m just kidding, but it could be true. Of course, it’s possible, seeing how this was 1970, that they were actually written out by someone. It could even have been Laura Nyro. At any rate, I am making a decision not to listen to the entire record while following along with lyrics. Honestly, with most music I halfway ignore lyrics. I don’t think I could understand very much of what Laura Nyro is singing, just listening, because she really abstracts the words—and I like that. But I feel like reading along takes away from what she’s doing with her voice—even to the extent of trading in intellectual meaning for emotional meaning—so I’m choosing to ignore the written words, for now. I have however, read and understood enough to know they’re about seasons, nature, God, and love, and are in some cases overtly political. Maybe for another time.

As far as the songs go, I like to take this record as side one, then side two, like those are song suites. They aren’t, but they do flow together almost as if that’s the case. Apparently, it’s different musicians on side one and side two—so I presume different recording sessions. The one song not written by Laura Nyro is “Up On the Roof,” the Gerry Goffin/Carole King song that was a hit for The Drifters—well before my time, but I’ve heard it done by quite a few people. It’s a great song, and this is a fine version, and being at the end of Side One, it reinforces the idea of the two sides being like two acts in a show. Seeing how the album is named “Christmas and the Beads of Sweat,” one is inclined to pay closer attention to the second-to-last song, “Beads of Sweat,” but sadly it’s my least favorite song on the record. Not that it’s terrible, it’s fine, especially in album context—but it’s just too upbeat and jaunty for me, and I don’t like the guitar. The following number, and last song on the record, the X-mas one, titled, “Christmas in My Soul,” is very nice, a long, slow one, perfect to close out the record.

I particularly like the song, “Upstairs by a Chinese Lamp,” which I heard somewhere and got kind of obsessed with. I have no idea why. It’s a lovely, atmospheric song, for sure, even kind of diaphanous and hard to put a bright light on because on closer examination it’s like mist, and it dissipates. But in this case, for me, that’s a good thing—I like that about this song. I heard an instrumental version somewhere—I don’t remember, maybe it was a jazz artist—maybe before I heard this one. That might have been what got me hooked on the song. In fact, it might have led me to Laura Nyro. A couple of other favorites are, “When I Was a Freeport and You Were the Main Drag” (great title), and “Blackpatch” (a really catchy pop song).

Oh, and the album cover I love—one of my favorites. I assumed it was a drawing, but when I look at it more closely, I’m convinced it’s a photo that’s blown up and degraded. Maybe it’s a process I don’t know. (It’s credited: “Cover portrait by Beth O’Brien.”) Anyway, it’s quite lovely and haunting. I always assumed the little flower earring was colored red by a previous owner, but since seeing other copies, I realized they just made it look that way—and really pulled it off. I have a version, as well, without the album and artist name on the cover. No words whatsoever on the cover, which is impressive. The copy I have, with the record marks, and age, dirt, and some stains, just becomes more beautiful.

11.17.23

Tommy Roe “Dizzy” / “The You I Need”

The B-side, “The You I Need” is a decent if vapid and jaunty pop song—but did I ever listen to it? Maybe not. Probably once. It’s like two minutes long, yet contains a corny key change. “Dizzy,” however, is a pop love song masterpiece. I personally consider it… not one of the best… but the best. Besides the melody, and the way the low-key verses work with the ascending chorus, it’s the drums (corny, but they make the song) and the strings, which function like another percussion instrument. This might be the first record I ever owned—probably not, but I’m sure one of my first half-dozen 45s (well before I bought LPs). It’s amazing that I still have the exact same record—my initials stuck on the label twice. It’s traveled around with me for 50 years—how did that happen? And it still plays! Not real well, but if it was the last version on Earth, you could live with it. This is one of the records (along with “I Think I Love You”) that I associate with my first crush on a girl, third grade or so. Every time I’d listen to it, then, my heart would practically melt (you know, like the guy in the song). And that went on for years—long after the crush had gone its way. And the weird thing—to this day—the song does the same thing to me. It really does. Which leads me to believe I can’t be trusted. It’s not the best song ever recorded. It’s not even my favorite all-time song. But it’s the purest personal example of nostalgia overwhelming all other faculties.

All this time, and I’ve never even bothered to look up who wrote the song, when the record came out, etc. Okay—1968 release—so third grade, like I thought. I mean, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be an eight-year-old—I guess I always assumed a simple-minded munchkin. Yet… here I was with a full spectrum of emotions and a sophisticated musical appreciation—to the extent that I’ve never grown out of it. That’s kind of incredible. It was written by Tommy Roe (he did write a lot of his hits, I believe) and Freddy Weller, another Sixties singer and songwriter with a similar haircut to Tommy Roe. What was the collaboration like, I wonder, with Tommy and Freddy? And the musicians? Of course… The Wrecking Crew. That doesn’t surprise me at all. Hal Blaine is playing those drums. Jimmie Haskell with the sting arrangement. It was probably part of a day’s work in some LA studio for those cats—I mean, I’m sure they were cool with it—probably happier with some recordings than others. When it became a number one hit, I’m sure that was sweet. But how many people are there, out there, like me, for whom this song is it? A few people covered it, of course, but most notably, Wreckless Eric—one of my all-time favorites. And the first punk band I was in, the Bursting Brains, we even played it (probably at my insistence). One of those “life goals,” ticked off.

11.10.23

Lambert, Hendricks and Ross “The Way-Out Voices of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross”

Apparently this is a 1968 re-release of the 1962 LP, “High Flying”—though, I like this album cover better than the original— by my favorite vocalese trio—Dave Lambert, Jon Hendricks, and Annie Ross. They’re backed up here by The Ike Isaacs Trio. It’s kind of a post-mortem record—in that they were no longer a band, and also, sadly, Dave Lambert had died in a tragic accident, in 1966.They only put out a handful of records—though maybe they printed a lot—as I come across their records regularly, for not much money. I wonder if they fell out of favor with audiences at some point since their style is a little bizarre, probably considered an acquired taste, and certainly “way-out.” I could imagine both jazz purists and jazz novices being scared off, and others finding the extreme nature of the style off-putting. I don’t know! To me, they are 100% delightful, all the time, and that includes the 11 tracks on this LP. Maybe I’m wrong, and they’re still a big deal with fans—I’m sure they are—that rarified group of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross superfans—my kind of crowd.

I was going to save this one for posting on my Halloween special—(and viola, no H. special)—anyway, the reason for that is because there’s a song called “Halloween Spooks”—which is one of the stranger Halloween-themed songs I’ve heard (written by Dave Lambert). The lyrics are odd enough—“can’t find the children”—that’s kind of alarming! And then there’s some truly otherworldly wailing—but not like you’d imagine—I mean some messed-up, out-there wailing—you have to hear it. Besides that, there’s one great song after another, including three by Horace Silver—two with the word “Cookin’” in the title, including my fav, “Home Cookin’”—which is about soul food. I am partial to songs about food—but of course, it’s about more than just food—there’s a lot to take in—candied yams, collard greens, etc.—but it’s really more about women. It’s kind of an epic, though not exactly a feminist anthem—though, who knows, maybe it is, in a backwards way.

The prettiest song on the record is “Blue” (by Gildo Mahones)—quiet and sad and subtle. (Little else on this record could be accused of being subtle!) My very favorite on the record is “Farmer’s Market”—written by Annie Ross and Art Farmer (get it?)—it reminds me somewhat of my favorite Annie Ross song, “Twisted.” It’s about a young woman going to a farmer’s market… and then a whole lot about beans! I can’t think of another song that’s so much about beans (even jellybeans). But what else is it about? Well, the guy selling beans isn’t the usual bean guy, but a cute hipster. My first inclination is, of course, sex—which is usually the case. But then it just goes right off into outer space—I can’t even begin to hope to paraphrase here! I can’t even begin to follow it—and I’m afraid that even if I could make out all the lyrics, it might be beyond my understanding. And that alone makes this my favorite song on the record! Blame it on the beans!

11.3.23

Minnie Riperton “Perfect Angel”

Besides being one of the classic album covers of the Seventies (Minnie Riperton holding a melting ice-cream cone like it’s a… microphone. Or, an ice cream cone). It’s an image that makes me feel the melting ice cream running over my fingers—I’d say that anyone who’s eaten an ice cream cone has had that experience. Despite her warm weather ware (bib overalls with no shirt) the image doesn’t have to be sexual, okay? I mean, if someone gave me the choice between sex and ice cream—well… I don’t know. That has never happened. This is a great sounding record—it sounds like 1974 to me. I mean that in the best way. Probably no more charged year in my life (I was 14, a crazy year for anyone, but also… I won’t go into personal details. Both sadness and that transition between child and adult). Great songs on this record, and they’re all very different. There’s even a little bit of country, there’s ballads, rock, funk, soul, pop. They’re all by Minnie Riperton and Richard Rudolph—except for two, which are by Stevie Wonder. Among my favorites are “The Edge of a Dream,” “Every Time He Comes Around,” and “It’s So Nice (To See Old Friends).”

I guess Minnie Riperton is famous for being able to hit those otherworldly high notes—which is impressive—but there’s some other quality to her voice that I particularly like—it’s too easy to say “soulful,” which it is—maybe there is something weirdly familiar about it. I don’t know why I think that… I only have a few of her records. I don’t know. The playing on this record is particularly good, throughout, too. Who’s that bass player? Reggie McBride, on every song. A young guy, from Detroit—he’s played on a million records. Also, a lot of piano and some other instruments credited to the mysterious (*). (That’s an asterisk inside of parentheses.) Which you, of course, follow down the bottom to learn is: “El Toro Negro.” Good luck figuring out who that is, in 1974, but the internet of today tells me it is Stevie Wonder—performing under this alias because of a conflicting label affiliation (something like, he was with Motown, and this is CBS?—but don’t quote me). The most well-known song is “Lovin’ You”—that’s the one with the bird sounds—credits say: Mocking Bird—credited to God. And I’ll take that mocking bird over harmonica any day. The title song is one of the Stevie Wonder compositions, which is nice and breezy, cool and jazzy—and his other song, “Take a Little Trip,” is my favorite here—it’s the weirdest—very odd, kind of off-kilter, also a bit jazzy, and very quite cosmic.

10.27.23

Hap Palmer “Movin’”

I bought this record because the cover said something to me (construction paper cutouts of coastal sunrise/set broken/reflected on the water). Also, the cover opens up—with some odd “movement” instruction inside (including what I mistakenly took as sexual innuendo). And because the price was right, no doubt, and it turned out to be another record from 1973 (my favorite year for records). But still, I didn’t expect much—I finally listened to it (dictated by the spectral planchette) and… the first song—whoa! That’s what I said, “Whoa.” It’s some kind of early fraggle-synth that hadn’t been invented yet! Who is this Hap Palmer? The internet says he’s an old dude with an acoustic guitar—digging deeper, he’s a composer who put out about 50 educational records, and this one is about “movement.” There’s a lot of musicians on it, including Jim Gordon, which the Big I tells me is not drummer Jim Gordon who played with everyone, but the other Jim Gordon who played everything. The world is unforgiving! The world is forgiving! Anyway, I was thinking—what else is about movement? Dance parties! Which gave me the idea to try to get a DJ gig where I’d only play this record (along with a few other tasty tidbits, of course). There are a lot of DJ gigs available, lately, because people need to listen to something while sampling the thousands of craft beers, and radio has crossed the line—over 50% really annoying ads. So, to give you an idea of the mood at my DJ nite, I’ll describe the mood you’ll be “movin’” to—song by song:

“Funky Penguin”—it’s the theme song for the marshmallow-heads, the mailman, the queen, the drunken cop, and our hero, Hairless Pal, and they’re all doin’ the Funky Penguin! “Midnight Moon”—(see, album cover) our heroes drive off at the end of movie after having stomped out evil, still alive, but very, very tired. “Tipsy”—they arrive at the saloon to see a show, but they end up condemning the exploitation of the dancers and eating their straw hats. “Far East Blues”—motorcycle trip around the world with nothing but a bedroll, cumulative wisdom, and a squeezed-out tube of Desitin. “Gentle Sea”—after a long journey our reformed antiheroes believe they are arriving at the sea, the end of the land… but it turns out to merely be the end of Side A. “Jamaican Holiday”—Veronica demands to know why they’re called “The Archies” and not The Veronicas? “Enter Sunlight”—How did everyone suddenly get to be middle-aged and no longer really enjoying their cocktails? “Haunted House”—it’s not really haunted, but the biker gang who lives there is faking a haunted house (surprise!) to keep away the renovators. “Movin’”—“It’s a beautiful night for a daydream, and it’s a beautiful day for a nightmare” is the name of the dance where your feet can’t leave the floor. “Twilight”—we finally know where we’re going… and… there’s a signpost up ahead! “Pause”—it’s a beautiful… uh. It’s a beautiful… uh. It’s a beautiful… oh, shit. It’s a beautiful dream for… uh. It’s a beautiful… uh… oh, shit…

10.20.23

Spirit “Clear”

I’ve been intrigued with Spirit enough to buy a few of their early records—it also helped that I could find inexpensive copies—though they’re all beat to shit—but they still sound good! I haven’t written about any before now—though I did recently freak out over a Randy California solo record—and he’s in this band, as you know. I’m not going to read about them—just yet—I mean how the individual dudes melded to make a whole—who might be the leaders, and who might be jilted—too many guys—too many names—not enough time! This is pure sound I’m going on. I did glance at their discography—this is their third LP—I like that they’re on Ode Records, with the yellow school bus cheapo looking label. One thing fun about them is you don’t know what’s coming next—they mash together hippie blues, psychedelic pop, progressive rock, ballads, instrumentals, jams—lots of percussion, lots of guitar, various singers—though… the lyrics elude me at this point—the few I’ve made out sound like they were hard-earned. In pictures I’ve seen of them, including this album cover and back cover—the five of them look like a band—all quite hairy—except for one guy, excellent jazz drummer Ed Cassidy—who was actually Randy California’s stepfather—the “old guy” in the band. (Much older than Jack Casady (not related, different band), and even older than Jack Cassidy (father of David, Shaun—the musical Cassidys just keep coming), and even older than Neal Cassady, who probably died during the making of this record (also not related).) Ed Cassidy is as bald as a cue ball. Remember, back in 1969 bald guys weren’t a dime a dozen like they are now—virtually no one was bald but Yul Brynner, and the cast of Kung Fu (and even that was 1972).

Well… I really like this record, so I’m going to describe it the best I can while listening and being free with my observations. I’m not going to list songs (there are six to a side) because I feel like they are conforming to song structure somewhat against their most natural instincts (I may be, and am probably, wrong about this, but it’s what I’m hearing). So I’m going to pretend it’s a single musical piece, only restricted by the two sides of an LP. Why there are “bombs falling” sound effects (like Flipper’s “Sex Bomb”) during a song about a “dark eyed woman” I have no idea—maybe there are metaphors working in both directions—of course there are. Already, a percussion break—nice—tempo change in the next “song”—solid—but at this point we think we’re in for a whole record of hippie guitar blues, so I’m happy to report we’re now selling something—not sure what—happiness? And now… one of those sex songs disguised as a fairytale. And next… they’re moving off down the tunnel of death, until… someone had a little too much zappa with lunch. After running some errands, maybe a siesta… hitman from south of the border… movie score. What’s this, a harmony-rich psych-pop ballad? —you can fall either on the side of beautiful… or cornball. While I’m deciding, it’s back to drug-rock (songs with “Truckin’” in the title are 100% about drugs, 0% about the conveyance of goods). Less than brief interlude. Sleaze. Sly cartoon cat is up to something. Best for last… a compact (4:24) fervent mini-opera about futility.

10.13.23

Barbara Christian “Not Like You Boy” / “I Worry”

Finally, I came across a record in my very miscellaneous 45 box that I never heard before and it’s really good. Both sides sound like soul classics—they sound enough like other songs that they’re on the tip of your tongue—but I don’t recall ever hearing them. I must have played the record when I found it (I play everything once)—then filed it with the rest, waiting for its magic number to come up. It’s a simple white label with black, basic letters, Brownie Records—and the artist, Barbara Christian. I’d never heard of either, so the way my brain works, I’m thinking religious music, and that dessert that’s about half as good as fudge. But no, the A-side is a hot soul number with a repetitive organ riff, horns, wild drums, and catchy, echoey backup vocals—an overall kind of over-blown, hard, funky sound. You can dance to it. Her singing is strong and emotional. I like “I Worry” even more—a slower one, even more emotional—the man in question here isn’t being dismissed, this time—more worth being sad over. You can dance to this one too, but it would be a slow dance. Again, organ, horns, and drums recorded loud, so when they break out, they distort—I really like the sound. I imagine this is the same recording session. Both songs are credited to “G. Brown”—and it’s “A Gary Brown Production”—so I’m guessing he wrote them. I can’t find a lot of info, but there’s some on Discogs, and in comments on a YouTube of the record someone was kind enough to post. If the info is correct—Brownie was Gary Brown’s label, out of Milwaukee, and Barbara Christian was born in Newark and passed away in Milwaukee in 2018. The record is from 1967. I know I always say (when writing about a 45) that I don’t have any idea where it came from (I’m a broken record) but in most cases that’s true. You come across them a lot in thrift stores, and they’re almost always either super big hits, a billion pressed, and/or lame novelty records. But once in a while you find something good, like this, so it’s worth looking!

10.6.23

Rachel Sweet “Fool Around”

I don’t remember when we first heard of Rachel Sweet (by “we,” I mean my high school punk rock bandmate and music fan friends). It had to be either Rolling Stone (a review) or just buying this record, since it was on the Stiff label (“If it ain’t Stiff, it ain’t worth a f**k”)—for a while there, you couldn’t go wrong. Anyway, we loved the record. We did our best to find out about her. Was she still in high school?! And from Ohio, where we lived? There were a lot of good bands from the Akron area, of course, but how did a high school girl record a record for Stiff? And with the excellent musicians from Ian Dury’s band (AKA, The Blockheads)? Here, I got sidetracked for a while, as it occurred to me Ian Dury might have put out some records, later, that I never heard. Which led me to one from 1997 (that tragic, black hole of sound CD era) called Mr. Love Pants—fantastic title—and an excellent record, that I’d like to get ahold of.

Anyway, back to Rachel Sweet. The record isn’t exactly punk rock—but it is youthful and high energy, so it might have fallen under that imaginary, euphemistic umbrella, “new wave.” Power Pop was also a term being thrown around. Oddly, there are a few versions of this record, with different songs—I’m not going to attempt to compare the two, but the one I have is maybe later, 1979, the US version—and it’s got a better cover. The other cover is fine—both of them are photos outside, she’s wearing a leather jacket—but entirely different hair and makeup—in this one she looks younger, probably closer to her age. On the back, she looks ever younger, leaning against a pole—and it looks like, I’m not sure, she’s chewing on a piece of straw—who does that? Also, there’s a much younger girl passing behind her—was that set up, or did she just happen to be there, whoever it is—and does she have this record?

It’s a nice album—I still like the sound, the production, her singing, and the songs. Highlights include the Carla Thomas song “B-A-B-Y,” with horns and a lot of echo. A really good Elvis Costello country song. The Mark Middler (don’t remember him) number, “Sad Song.” The Peter and Gordon hit “I Go to Pieces.” And the Dusty Springfield hit “Stay Awhile.” The producer is an Akron musician, Liam Sternberg, who I never found out much about (all those years I lived in the area). He also wrote half the songs on the record, including my favorites, “Who Does Lisa Like?” and “Cuckoo Clock.” And then, my very favorite might be “Pin a Medal on Mary,” written by some guys who, I guess, were contemporary power pop Brits—in the band, The Records—though, I’ve never heard any other version of this song. It’s got a great opening line: “You said you were going to the bathroom, but you were gone for half an hour.” Anyway—fast ones, slow ones, “new wave” songs, retro songs, country, and R&B—no weak songs on this record.

9.29.23

The Clash “Gates of the West” / “Groovy Times”

I have absolutely no idea how this oddball Clash 45 came into my possession—it says: “Demonstration Not for Sale” on it—the date, 1979. I’m pretty sure both of these songs were on albums, though I’m not sure which ones. I was such a huge Clash fan—at the time of their first four LPs—that I would buy both the US and UK versions, since there were different songs on them. At some point, though, I just lost interest in The Clash, and for whatever reason, I still haven’t been able to go back to them, not even for nostalgia. I wrote about the first four LPs on the DJ Farraginous blog way back in 2006—so you can see what I said then—if you’re so inclined—probably amusing. (That’s the year that blog started, and for a while, I was going through my records alphabetically.) I feel kind of bad about not being a big fan, anymore, since I know they were a great band—and it is weird to me how I sometimes go against what I once loved with all my heart (like the M*A*S*H TV show, energetic rock music, the harmonica, some sports, driving, movies, and beer). I feel like I know these songs in my sleep—I know exactly how they go. But I’m going to play them, anyway, because you never know—fresh ears and all. “Gates of the West” is a super high energy Mick Jones vocals pop number—very catchy—he’s also, I’m guessing, singing the backup vocals and playing his signature lead guitar parts. The lyrics are no doubt political, but I’m not going to dwell on them at this point. “Groovy Times” is also high energy and poppy, this time with Joe Strummer singing—I liked both of those guys as singers, but particularly JS, because MJ backup vocals work well with JS’s raspy voice. I’m also not dwelling on the lyrics—though I’m sure they’re saying something. The worst thing about both of these songs is the drums sound crappy—they were recorded crappily, I suspect, because I know that guy was a great drummer—unless for this studio date they enlisted a hack with a cardboard box. Who knows. Anyway, both of these songs sound exactly like I remember them—but more so, actually. Is that even possible?

9.22.23

Randy California “Kapt. Kopter and the (Fabulous) Twirly Birds”

For some odd reason I’m especially attracted to records by people named “Randy.” Maybe it’s because Randy is such a goofy name. It’s a name you should never give your kids, unless you want them to go into show business, fail, and suffer a broken heart. Anyway, this obsession has sometimes backfired, and I’ve bought some real clinkers over the years, but also some all-time gems, like Randy Lee’s Soakin’ with Tears. And there’s always Randy Newman. And I’ve always been fascinated with Randy California and the band, Spirit. I read on the unreliable internet that Randy California got his handle when he was in a band with Jimi Hendrix and another Randy, so Jimi named them Randy California and Randy Texas. (I’m glad I wasn’t in that band, or I’d be going around as Ray Indiana!) Anyway, I was thrilled to find this LP—the cover is great—it looks like it served for a time as a urinal splashguard—yet it still plays brilliantly. Before even touching needle to vinal, however, I started a review based on the gnarly cover photo and credits, which went something like this: “When you get this jambalaya of odors together—weed, whiskey, BO, menthol cigarettes, patchouli, and dirty hippie feet—which one dominates? That’s kind of a rhetorical quiz question, actually, but all I’ve got to say is, thank god for the patchouli! Is that a way for me to describe the absolutely filthy sound of this record? Well, all I’ve got to go on is the righteous sound, and the black and white photos on front and back—unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately)—no olfactory sensations.”

SO, I was wrong to be dismissive, but right about the filthy sound—you almost sense that you’re going to need to clean your stereo after playing it. Besides the gnarly rockstar photos, the song listings and credits are enough to scare away the most reckless bargain bin gambler. No less than two Lennon-McCartneys (one will sink most records) and a Paul Simon! And then… musicians named Henry Manchovitz, Cass Strange, and Clit McTorius! It’s “Danger Will Robinson.” But… I thought I should at least listen to it—and I’m glad I did, because it’s not only an awesome record, it’s become the soundtrack for my life. This is a record where I’ve got to go through song by song—because one gets the impression that they stumbled into the studio, pulled off side one, went out for a bucket of fried chicken and a few drinks, and then went back in for side two.

The first song is aptly called “Downer” and sounds like it never gets fully formed before it falls apart—which is, I mean, great—they sound like they have no respect for their instruments, and that’s cool. The record came out in 1972, which is when I had my first band, and we didn’t even have instruments. (We’d already broken my mom’s guitar, so we were stuck with an autoharp, piano, pots and pans.) We also had no helicopter, like, who I assume are the band members, seen approaching on the back cover—wait… that’s the same helicopter on the front, and they’re right under the blades—they should really be ducking down! And do they really not have cases for their guitars? Next song, “Devil,” is not doing it for me—not converting me to the Twirly Birds or Satan—way too much backwards guitar. Apparently, at some point, someone sang some Satanic messages and then played it backwards on a record to hide the message from all but the Satanists—and ever since, anything played backwards is like shorthand for “Satanic.” I get it. The next song, “I Don’t Want Nobody,” starts out sounding like the Edgar Winter Group, but then the singing starts (RC), sounding a lot like the James Brown song this has shortened the title from. It’s great—this is the one that hooked me—but weirdly, it sounds nothing like James Brown, and is now totally making me think of Fuzzhead—but it couldn’t be influenced by Fuzzhead—not without a time machine. At any rate, now I’m in. I’m into it. So much so, that by the time we get to the next song, “Day Tripper,” I’m open to the idea that it might not be a steaming turd. And it’s actually a lot of fun—it kind of sounds like a cover band at the grange hall who are actually really good—but perhaps helped and hindered by a variety of substances. Last, and the weirdest cover song choice, is Paul Simon’s reggae song from that year, “Mother and Child Reunion”—and sounds nothing like it—but apparently the song is about Chinese food, so maybe the band was ready for a lunch break.

Side Two kicks off with a cover of Sweathog’s excellent song, “Things Yet to Come,” along with some effects that sound like someone squirting some 409 spray cleaner all over the place—maybe it was, but why? Again, this one really reminds me of a Fuzzhead song—but still, no time machine. But then it occurs to me, maybe Fuzzhead was influenced by this very record—I mean literally the one I’m playing—it very well could have spent some time in a basement. After that epic, Alvin and the Chipmunks visit the studio (either that or someone’s having fun with helium). After which the band launches into some unlistenable audio-lame-joke-playing as an into to “Rain”—one of the more druggy Beatles songs (and one of my favorites)—and they kind of continue with the tradition here—drugs, drugs, more drugs, Satan, drugs, and so forth. Nice. After that epic, you figure it’s about time for another snack, but no, there’s another song, called “Rainbow”—the best original on the record—sounding a bit like Hendrix. I can’t make out the lyrics, but the chorus sounds like, “I need protection,” over and over. Think about it—he needs protection from a rainbow? What’s that all about?

9.15.23

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