Edward Bear “Last Song” / “Best Friend”

I was thinking this one might be country, based on the band name (ridiculous assumption, I realize), but no, it’s a Canadian pop band formed in 1966. Named after Winnie the Pooh. Pooh fans would, of course, know that right off, and not think there was actually a guy going around with the unlikely name of Edward Bear who started a band and insisted the band be his name—rather than doing the band thing of spending countless nights at the local pub with his bandmates arguing over whether their band is going to be called “Raw Deal” or “Whim” or “The Elastic Chocolate Regurgitator.” I’m not sure, but does the radio hit, “Last Song,” sound a little familiar? It’s a tad insipid—yet rings a bell. Did I hear this on CKLW (Detroit) on my little Sunoco-gas-pump transistor AM radio? No doubt. “Last Song” was written by bandmember Larry Evoy, and it’s an account of when, bedtime imminent, he’d leave his lights on when he went to sleep, hoping “You” would see that he’s home, and “still up,” and thus drop by. We’ve all been there. The B-side, “Best Friend,” is a much hotter song, with a bit of a T-Rex-y guitar riff and a strong B3 organ part. It’s funny, the bridge really makes me think of The Partridge Family—like David Cassidy dropped by for a cameo—“What I’m sayin’ is you are you!” He’s “writing a letter” to “You”—to whom he then proclaims, “You are… your own… best friend!”—but I’m not sure if general audiences, who typically just focus in on the repetition of the chorus, might think it’s the “universal you”—and a fine bit of wisdom. But then, I might be totally wrong—and I’m only going so far with my repeat listenings to finesse the nuances of the lyrics… sorry.

12.20.24

Michael Franks “Skin Dive”

This record is “Produced by Rob Mounsey (the legendary musician/producer—if you’ve got a couple of hours look up his credits) for Flying Monkey Productions, Inc.” Nothing quite says “coke” like “flying monkey.” Not that I think anyone involved with the making of this record was taking cocaine (I love when people say “taking” cocaine), it’s just that in the Mid-Eighties there was so much coke flying around you couldn’t help but to ingest some, even if you were a tea-totaler! Like, you’d just be going out for bagels or on your way to the laundromat and you’d end up, to some degree, “coked up.” It is from 1985, and the first song, “Read My Lips” slaps you right upside the head— “You set off my siren/I kept pumping iron”—bass registered as a deadly weapon—I know it puts me right on the virtual dancefloor. I will generally not touch a 1985 record with protective gloves—the major exception being a Michael Franks record. Not that there might not be tons of vinyl out there from that year that I might possibly discoverer—the way I’m lucky to have discovered (late in life) Michael Franks. Second song is a beautiful ballad. Like I’ve said before, it’s the songs that are at the heart of what’s great here. Then there’s his singing, which I love (obviously, you’ve got to be in on his singing to get into his records). And then a list of musicians that likely would have been playing on later-Eighties Steely Dan records—had there been any. It’s funny, I thought this might be the first Michal Franks record that I’d be a bit cool about, but I’m immediately obsessed with it, just like the others I’ve heard.

The cover is hilarious, and full-size b&w photo of Michael Franks (looking roughly 40ish) moustache and soul patch, hair strategically messed up, and an uncomfortable looking shirt buttoned right up to the top. (In a nearly identical pose on the inside sleeve, he’s wearing a gray t-shirt.) There are also four less-than-snapshot-size photos of a guy (weird if it wasn’t Franks) wearing a Speedo that looks a lot like my vintage (1977) suit. Side 2 starts right back in your face (it’s a theme) and you can practically hallucinate a tortured 1980s Demi Moore (if none of these songs were in St. Elmo’s Fire (1985), they should have been). Again, after the opening disco workout, a beautiful ballad. It’s a theme. There are a few songs on this record that I probably know from a “Best Of” collection I have, so they’re immediately old friends— “Your Secret’s Safe with Me” and, my favorite on the album, “When I Give My Love to You”—a duet with Brenda Russell. Though if I had to pick another, “Please Don’t Say Goodnight” is fairly incredible—way too complex for any but (you know who you are) sophisticated music fans. (“Just let me count the freckles on your knees.”) As with all Franks, the lyrics are crystal clear, but still the lyric sheet is welcome, because you might want to, at some point, focus on the literary qualities here. And that last slow one (“When She is Mine”) you can imagine yourself drinking bourbon in the smokiest, most Hollywood cocktail lounge ever.

12.13.24

Toni Lee Scott “Vol. Lonely”

The reasons I picked up this record: I know nothing about it. Attractive, mysterious cover (black and white photo of Toni Lee Scott in the shadows). Intriguing title—Vol. Lonely—what’s that even mean? Is it like Vol. 1, or Vol. 2, but “Lonely” instead of a number? Or is there something I’m missing? Let me take another guess… as a word root, vol means “wish.” But there’s that period, which indicates that it means “volume,” so… Maybe it’s because this is her only album? But how would she know that at the time? Anyway, also, a label I never head of (Äva Records, from Los Angeles, which folded in 1965) —that always gives me a little thrill of mystery. It looks like a good era, it looks like the Sixties, though the date (1964) is not in evidence. A good lineup of songs. Also, there’s a paragraph of smoldering liner notes by someone named “Mister Gray.” All promising. Sometimes you make these assumptions and are dead wrong, but in this case, the music exceeded my hopes for it—it’s a great record—one that doesn’t want to leave my turntable—I’ve got to say. You can find this record, too, for whatever reason (I did) —so you’d be a fool not to pick it up. She should have more records—and be more famous. And the world should be a better place.

It's easy to find a few things about her on the internet, including an article by Eugene Chadbourne (AllMusic site). Briefly, Toni Lee Scott was born in 1933, in San Francisco, wanted to be a singer, lost a leg in a motorcycle accident as a young woman, so it was a rough start, but she still had a career singing live, in clubs and such—but made only a few records. So, we’re lucky to have this one. It’s as good as any jazz vocal record I have—her singing is full of emotion and personality, and the piano, bass, drums, guitar combo is excellent. Actually, a couple of combos, I guess—so I’ll just name the musicians: Gerald Wiggins, Dan Abney, Howard Roberts, Wilfred Middlebrooks, Red Callender, and Jackie Mills. All the songs and performances are good—my favorites are: “One for My Baby,” “San Francisco,” “Ten Cents a Dance” (an amazing, nightclub style rendition) (well, they all are). Also, great versions of favorites, “Something Cool,” and “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” Also, the record’s saddest and most fascinating, “Where’s the Boy I Saved for a Rainy Day”—that’s one I’ve never heard before—and I’m grateful to not miss out now. The whole record is something. I’m leaving it close at hand for a while.

12.6.24

Jim Lowe “Green Door” / “Talkin’ to the Blues”

This 45 is a 1979 reissue of the 1956 hit single “The Green Door” sung by Jim Lowe and written by Bob “Hutch” Davie and Marvin J. Moore (good lyrics: “Saw an eyeball peeping through a smokey cloud…”). It’s on the goofy-looking “Gusto” label (four yellow horns and a bird with a green?pod). The beloved recording was repeatedly released (and covered) here and there over the years. I bought this record, inspired by the excellent version that closes the Cramps’ great 1981 Psychedelic Jungle album—I learned it and played it myself (never to a captive audience). The B-side is similarly corny and fun. I could regurgi-wiki the many theories on the song’s origins and meanings, but I’m more interested in my own ideas about the mysterious green door’s long lineage. There’s a 1940 children’s book, Behind the Green Door, part of the 17-book Penny Parker series. I read it (nothing to worry about, kids) and it’s good, and it’s directly related to this song—as is the 1972 Marilyn Chambers movie. Behind the Green Door—which is the only (non-parody) instance I’m aware of, of a direct connection of a children’s series book to porn! It’s all in good fun, of course, but given the number of appearances in culture of the “Green Door,” I’m guessing there is something deep and disturbing behind the reference—most likely going back to the turn of the Century (the 1899 to 1900 one) when the world was going even more crazy than it is now. I can’t say for sure, or where, but I’m guessing that what went on was a little more sinister than these milquetoast sagas. Let’s say… unwilling, restrained, victims with the top of their skulls removed and members of a Satanic death cult dining on the still living brains. I’m not saying that happened, necessarily, but given all the green door theories, I’m just addin’ my two cents here!

11.29.24

Jalaleddin “Jalaleddin Presents Belly Dance Music”

A great belly dance music album from 1976—especially if you’re in the mood for belly dance music—for listening, or belly dancing. Or, say if you have a belly dance group or are taking lessons, or just dance for fun and exercise. None of the dancing options apply to me, but occasionally I cook an exotic dinner at home and want to feel like I’m in the Staten Island restaurant scene in Barefoot in the Park (1967)—and this is perfect for that. Side 1 is a 24-minute belly dance routine—otherwise nameless, save: “Music for Bellydancers”—which it is—and is satisfyingly long—it’s a complete meal. And Side 2 is five separate songs, all in a similar style, to my ears—but somewhat different from each other, maybe focusing on different instruments, I’m not sure. The name and spellings of the songs—on the label and the album cover—don’t exactly match—I always love that. One of the songs (that does match) is called “Z”—great song title—and it’s a rollicking good time, too.

The leader here, Jalaleddin Takesh, is the arranger and plays the Kanoon, which I previously thought was something I could eat. But in this case, it’s an instrument that may have different spellings (qanun, kanun, ganoun) which is a stringed instrument that is somewhat similar (as far as I can tell) to a zither. The liner notes say that it’s one of the most difficult Middle Eastern stringed instruments to master, and Jalal Takesh is a virtuoso. Credits list the other musicians, who play: Bouzouki (never thought it was a Greek dish—a stringed instrument, similar to a lute), Violin, Guitar, Dumbeg (a kind of goblet drum, not a Middle Eastern pastry as I would have guessed), Bass, Drums, Tambourine, and Zils (little cymbals, not symbolic money). The album cover is exceptional, a color portrait—drawing or painting—of Jalaleddin playing the (I assume) Kanoon. It’s credited to S. C. Schoenberg. It’s one of those artworks that, to me, at least, has an elusive appeal. I mean, it’s a nice portrait, Jalaleddin is quite handsome and mysterious, but it’s also got a quality that I can’t put my finger on—it feels alive, maybe even haunted, or mystical—I don’t know, all of those if that’s possible. And I bet it sold some records.

11.22.24

Thelonious Monk / Sonny Rollins

I put on this record, not knowing what to expect, who’s playing on what, what songs are within, and the horn sound almost immediately knocked me over—that Sonny Rollins tenor sax, I guess—the way it’s recorded—that tone. I never heard anything like that coming from my low-budget stereo, it’s like the song made it into one of those million-dollar stereos, you know. First there’s a couple of standards—Sonny Rollin Quartet, with Thelonious Monk on piano. Then there’s a couple of Monk compositions I’m well familiar with (“Work” and “Nutty”) with a trio—great versions. Then finally, the oddball, Monk, number, called “Friday the Thirteenth”—this one is a quintet, with Sonny Rollins, as well as Julius Watkins on French Horn. The excellent liner notes tell the story of the song—a studio date on Friday, November 13, 1953—Watkins was a last minute replacement and hadn’t previously seen the music. Monk and Rollins were late due to an automobile accident. What was the mood like at the session? Maybe you can hear it preserved in the track—it’s a pretty weird song! Would anyone believe me if I said if I heard the song not knowing the title, I might have guessed “Friday the Thirteenth?” It sounds like autumn, maybe Halloween, maybe a group of oddballs, all dressed very differently, walking downtown, right down the avenue. I don’t have a sophisticated vocabulary for talking about jazz, so that’s the best I can do!

Again, a reminder that Thelonious Monk is my favorite musician. I’ve tried to explain in the past how his music makes me feel—his compositions, but especially his playing. I always fail at it, so I’m not going to repeat myself. But there’s no one like him. I can’t listen to him all the time, though, too intense—I have to be fully involved when I listen, and there’s not a lot of room for much else—like dinner or visiting—it’s got to be just me and the music. The liner notes on this record are kind of nuts There’s a couple of paragraphs in a small font, and then seven more paragraphs in an even smaller font—credited to Ira Gitler. At one point there’s a real gem, describing Monk: “His playing can be characterized by roast beef, and a martini in which vermouth plays a very minor supporting role; much meat and very dry.” The food and cocktail analogies go a long way with me.

I really like this album cover, styled after abstract art—or maybe it is abstract art—I mean, of course it is—but I’m not sure if it was art before it was an album cover. (There is a name, almost hidden: “Hannan”—could be Tom Hannan.) Red and black marks on a white background, and then “Thelonious Monk” and “Sonny Rollins” in hand painted font. Anyway, it’s exactly what a jazz album cover from 1956 should look like. The back cover has musician credits and recording dates and liner notes. Jazz. This is my kind of record. I wish I had a hundred records that were this good and similar to this. I can’t say it’s “all I would listen to”—but maybe it is. But I can’t afford jazz records—I have no idea where I got this one. It’s pretty beat up, so that’s probably why I was able to buy it—but it plays great, sounds amazing. Apparently, it’s a 1983 reissue, Prestige label, distributed by Fantasy. Sounds amazing, clear as fucking horn in my room!

11.15.24

Frank Sinatra “In the Wee Small Hours (Part 4)” EP

According to the version I see on Discogs, this is called In the Wee Small Hours (Part 4)—and probably had a cover—the 7-inch version of the long playing 12-inch album, a great one, arguably Sinatra’s finest (with 16 songs!) —as well as one of the best album covers. The 7-inch 45 RPM “album” was likely four 7-inch 45s, I’d guess—but this is what I have (1/4 of the album)—a four song 45, with the songs “Can’t We Be Friends,” “When Your Lover Has Gone,” “What Is This Thing Called Love,” and “Last Night When We Were Young.” All slow, smoky ballads, recorded with the Nelson Riddle Orchestra—four of the saddest, most beautiful songs Sinatra ever recorded. What if this was the only Sinatra record someone had? Ha, funny thought—but I’m sure not so farfetched—and if it was the case, it would be something. A person, just on the basis of this little disk, could elevate Sinatra to mythical proportions. You could even go so far as to say that outside of this little record, he starts to get watered down—but I’d never say that. Anyway, this 45 is on this old, dark green (evergreen? myrtle? hunter green? British racing green?) Capitol label—haven’t see that one a lot—it’s old, from 1955, which amazingly makes it like 70 years old—a long time for sleeveless, coverless, vinyl device to go bouncing around—but it plays perfectly—scratchy, sure, but sounding like old radio at three in the morning, when you’re desperate for sleep and as lonely as the record sounds.

11.8.24

George Shearing “My Ship”

One of the later (1975) Shearing records in my collection, on the MPS label—it’s all solo piano, standards mostly, a few of them being songs you might be happy not hearing again until the afterlife—but the playing is interesting, at least. I’m not sophisticated enough to talk about it, so I’ll rely on the extensive, uncredited, liner notes (internet says it’s Klaus Scholz). Bring along your reading glasses, and some wine, because they take up nearly the whole back cover in small print—and dry? Actually, not dry, and quite fascinating. For one thing, half of it is a concise bio of George Shearing, pretty good—and especially riveting is the story of the creation of “The Shearing Sound.” I’m not going to paraphrase it here, but as I’ve said before (a million times) it was that unique style and instrumental combination that was the soundtrack to my young life. I can’t help but think if my parents were Beatles or Dylan fanatics, I’d be a very different person—but here we are. The front cover, by the way, doesn’t feature a beautiful woman but rather George behind a reflective, black piano, big dark glasses, loud jacket, and tie. Behind him, large windows open on a night garden in which werewolves no doubt dwell.

The remainder of the liner notes discusses the songs and recordings on this record. Since I can’t do a better job, I’m just going to do a worse one. “My Ship” is a good opener and name for this album—after all, don’t you wish you’d thought of that as a title for your autobiography? (I’m speaking to myself, here—I mean, rather than Schmo from Kokomo.) So, I guess this song was for a Broadway musical called Lady in the Dark (not a bad title, either)—it was written by Kurt Weill. It’s an instrumental here, but I’m guaranteeing that 9 out of 10 people, hearing it for the first time, would say, this song sounds like it should be called: “My Ship.” I guess lyrics were by Ira Gershwin—which maybe I’ll hear someday—but had I written lyrics to a song by that title, they would have been about a guy who’s a domineering regular at a local diner—you know, kind of “big shit on turd island.” “Yesterdays” (Kern/Harbach) I’m oddly familiar with but can’t place, and it’s an overwhelmingly lovely song—certainly this rendition of it. It was recorded by everyone—and I probably have some version or other among my paltry 700 records—but I’m not going to spend the afternoon looking. We have an afternoon of nice music, here (especially if you can get your turntable to repeat), familiar stuff that Shearing’s giving a fresh feel to—with just a fucking piano! There’s a couple of my all-time favorites on the record—“April in Paris” and “Autumn in New York” (has anyone ever written “Autumn in Paris” or “April in New York”??)—as well as a few unmentionables that—if I never hear again (other than the versions here)—I’d be okay. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard George Shearing sing before, but that’s apparently him rendering “Send in The Clowns” (a sentimental favorite, and now my favorite take on it)—and, I don’t know, maybe he continues to sing on every record after this one—the dude made a billion records.

11.1.24

Michael Franks “Blue Pacific”

This album is a classy enterprise, and if feels very contemporary, as well as timeless. But what do those things mean—nothing to me, really, since I’m so far removed from any timelines when it comes to music, or any other kind of culture, I guess. But one thing I’ve really liked about Michael Franks—at least for the dozen or so records I’ve heard—is it doesn’t matter what year the record came out—they all sound like him, first of all. Not that they are all the same, or there isn’t a progression (I’m sure there is, of course). Also, all of them I’ve heard are really good. I would never have been able to guess what the year is of this record is—by the cover, the art, the production, or the songs—it’s 1990—and that means nothing. To me, 1990 is like yesterday, and I won’t normally go near an unknown record from that year. To a younger person, that probably seems like ancient history. The cover is very design-y, looks like jazz, very adult, minimal, bold lettering, and a huge blue filtered photo of Michael Franks in profile listening to a shell. It’s a very cool photo. The back contains complete, extensive credits, and there are a lot of them. Lots of thanks to a lot of people—and you get the sense that he’s a gracious dude. He’d probably thank me for listening to this if he was here right now. One thing that doesn’t require a lot of ink is the composition credits—all songs by Michael Franks. Besides his smooth, cool singing voice, and his putting all these musicians and producers together, his strength is his songwriting. Great songs!

I wouldn’t mind, at all, a lyric sheet, but there’s not one here—because he also writes intriguing, sometimes clever, sometimes funny, lyrics. One thing with him, though, is because the production and sound is so clean, and his voice is so clear, even someone who’s listening-ly challenged, like I am, can make out most of the lyrics. I’m not going to go song by song, or point out themes or paraphrase lyrics, but rather, I’m going to account for my mood as I listen through both sides. It’s starts out with a funky portrait of some lovers… nice. Then an island feeling—which is a lot of this record—which you’d guess by the title and cover. This is a very beautiful chorus, this one! Besides romantic love and seashore scenery, there’s also a visual art appreciation theme here and there—and a tiny note at bottom mentions a few of the songs are from a musical (by Franks) about Paul Gauguin (including one called “Vincent’s Ear”—which is as weird as you’d expect, but still lovely). Some of this is making me think of the more jazzy songs on the last two Steely Dan records, and indeed Walter Becker produced a couple of these songs. (Jeff Lorber and Tommy LiPuma, also producers.) This is a record I’ll leave sitting out—and I might put it on at any time (which goes for most Michael Franks records). And I kind of hate to admit it, but this is one of those records that makes me wish I had a date over once in a while, red wine, all of that—though I’d need to clean the place. Well, no reason I couldn’t have a listening date. Or maybe I should buy that houseboat I saw for sale near Rockaway Beach—I know, wrong ocean, but with the right music, any large body of water will do.

10.25.24

Skeeter Davis “Why So Lonely?”

“Why So Lonely?” is a great song (by Paul Tannen) —"why is my world in such a spin?” Why be coy, get right to the title song, first. Cy Coben’s “Burning a Hole in My Mind”—is not subtle—sad, graphic, mentions “the Devil.” “Don’t Keep Me Lonely Too Long” another good one—by Melba Montgomery—a household name, who’s absent from my LP collection—should I rectify that? The next one is jaunty stomper for those RCA execs worrying that things were too slow, too grim—a song I can tolerate because it’s Skeeter singing it. Next up, “The Most Wanted Man” is not about a criminal but rather an object of affection—it’s a play on words. “Somewhere with Me Sometime” (Paul Craft)—a nice melody, is romantic, optimistic, but also resigned and sad, a bit world-weary—kind of a weird song, sounds like the opening credits of a TV show or movie—fortunately, here, it’s only the end of Side1. “I Don’t Wanna Play House”—you know the Tammy Wynette hit—a great song. “You’ve Still Got a Place in My Heart” (Leon Payne) is a beautiful ballad, maybe my favorite on this record (no one’s making me pick, but there!). Then the only Skeeter Davis composition on the album, “Little Things Got Big”—a sad one, and a perfect voicing of something we all know—“One little thing led to another, until it got the best of us.” Another goofball one, then—title is too long to type. Jean Chapel’s classic “Lonely Again” is epic, the longest song on the record at near three minutes. These songs don’t need to be longer—they do what they do without any extraneous nonsense, like great short stories. It ends, then, with a happy number—which, sad to say it, leaves a sour taste in my mouth—and that’s just me—but I’ve got to be critical once in a while, they don’t just pay me for being a cheerleader here!

On back there’s some nice liner notes courtesy country artist and songwriter, Jim Glaser, who wrote her hit “What Does It Take (To Keep a Man Like You Satisfied)?” His notes here are concise and heartfelt, and he maintains (like most people who’ve had the privilege of writing Skeeter Davis liner notes) that her singing and artistry is only matched by the ebullience of her personality and presence. If I ever come away from one of these records thinking anything but Skeeter Davis is someone I wished I had known, I’ll let you know. He also mentions that this album is “alive with the now sound of county music.” (Italics, his.) Oh, I plead to whomever, where is my time machine? The album cover is one of her best. I have a feeling I’ve said that before! Maybe I say that about every one—while all very different, all of her album covers are striking and leave you with no doubt. This one, a near life-size portrait in front of a smoldering orange background, she’s wearing a lacy white shirt, minimal earrings and makeup, and her hair is piled high in a sculptural arrangement that I could spend the rest of my life trying to figure out without success. Her half-smile reveals nothing; was this a photoshoot for a loneliness themed album? I like that they don’t go with tears and clown makeup, ala Sinatra, but rather a deeply happy look. It’s not ironic at all, but rather embraces the complexity that is life. Her eyes, burning almost otherworldly from this one-foot-square piece of printed cardboard from 56 years ago—it’s kind of… I don’t know. It’s almost—like love—not fair.

10.18.24

The Platters “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” / “No Matter What You Are”

The B-Side being a classic Platters vocal performance—a song by Buck Ram—you could drop that in a period movie about the Fifties pretty much anywhere and it would fit. People driving, on a date, eating ice cream, playing baseball, at work. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”—covered by like a million recording artists—is a song everyone knows, even if they don’t know that they know it—in which case it could be a bit unsettling—or merely perceived as corny. And it is a corny song, intensely romantic and highly sentimental, and it is old. First of all, this classic recording of it (the song’s biggest hit version) by The Platters, is already old, from 1958—The Platters having formed in the early Fifties—I guess being part of what was and would be rock’n’roll—and they’re still going (many different members over the years, of course!) The song, though, goes even further back—1933! It was written by Jerome Kern and Otto Harbach for the Broadway musical, Roberta. I’m sure I first heard The Platters version on the radio, in the kitchen, or somewhere, maybe the car. Another version of the song then made an impression on me in the 1935 film, Roberta (based on the show)—here sung by Irene Dunne—I like that movie a lot—though I didn’t see it until maybe 10 years ago. The song made an even bigger impression on me when I first heard the cover version by Thelonious Monk—with maybe a sextet (he also recorded a not-quite-as-odd solo version) which was more or less the first time I’d ever heard Thelonious Monk—and the song is just transformed into something indescribable (except to say, a Monk recording)—that one really blew my mind, and continues to! Then I noticed that the song was featured in the novel Laura (1943) (by Vera Caspary—on which the 1944 movie, Laura, was based—where the song was changed to “Laura”). So, in my novel, Black Iris (2021) which is inspired by the movie Laura, but informed by the novel, I really go to town with the versions of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” And then, one final obsession, in the Fassbinder movie, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972), there’s a scene featuring The Platters version, where she (Petra) puts the record on a turntable, and the whole record plays. It’s a great scene. But that whole movie is bizarre—unique and unforgettable—one of my favorites.

10.11.24

Jackie DeShannon “Laurel Canyon”

I really like the overall feeling of this record, kind of loose and informal, sounds like friends playing together—it even strikes me a bit like it’s on the verge of collapse, falling apart—though that might have to do with the poor condition of the vinyl (though it still plays, and mostly sounds great). I get the sense that it’s about the songs, which I like, because that’s my focus, first of all. It’s somewhat lofty, but escapes pretension, at least to my ears—there’s plenty of seriousness, but it’s also a lot of fun. 12 songs, five by Jackie DeShannon—and based on this record, she’s a fine lyricist. I know very little about her (JDS)—this is the first record by her I’ve heard. She’s a good singer, emotional and soulful. Well, I did know she wrote “Bette Davis Eyes” (a much earlier version, prior to Kim Carnes’ hit) and had a huge hit with “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” (co-wrote and sang), which I believe came out just after this record. That song is one of those of those that’s ingrained in my mind like a Pepsi ad or my first “girlfriend’s” phone number. And even earlier, say 1965, while even Pop-Tarts didn’t assuage the breakfast-table-tension as my parents shipped me off to some horror called Kindergärtn—it was Jackie DeShannon singing that burrowing Bacharach-David-worm “What the World Needs Now Is Love”—that will no doubt be the song I’m listening to when I “go home” (like Edward G. Robinson in Soylent Green). Of course, by now, I’ve forgiven all involved, and I do wish I’d scored a copy of this LP, at Ontario (department store), age 9, to play on my Show’N Tell (which I used as my first “hi-fi”) for an adult perspective to counteract the Partridge Family, and Tommy Roe’s “12 in a Roe” teeny-bopper version of male chauvinism. I still love those records, so I’d probably love this one—I love her singing—and the playing on this one is nice—killer bass, relaxed drums, soulful backing vocals (including Barry White!), acoustic and electric guitars and pianos—including one “Mac Rebbenack” (who sounds suspiciously like Dr. John).

I might even have hung the album cover on the wall—it’s one of those that opens up, and arranged vertically, makes a life-size (well, if she was 2 feet tall) poster of Jackie DeShannon enmeshed in some tree branches (holding what looks like an iPhone in mirror-selfie pose—but not obscuring her face) (of course, it’s pre-smart-phone, so she’s probably holding a rescued, small, animal). It’s really striking, this photo! It’s much better than the photo on the cover which looks like she’s taking a smoking break at a warehouse job. The  back cover has four snapshot size photos—the different looks of JDS—on some steps in a fur coat; red and white gingham dress (same as inside), in some weeds; hitchhiking (don’t get in that Corvair!); and inexplicably sitting among shopping carts wearing a leather jacket with fringe, in front of a sign that says “Slow to 20” (a sly reference to Ralph Nader?) Liner notes in poem form (!) by JDS.

My favorite songs? Well, the title song, “Laurel Canyon”—is there a long running TV show with this as the title song that I don’t know about? I’d watch that show! (As long as it’s not on a streaming service I don’t get—which is, at this point, all of them.) Really, I love this song—it makes me want to do a (sworn-off) rabbit-hole JDS history and cross-reference with the specific names dropped in the lyrics. Or else, just write my own, fictional version based on these lyrics. But I probably should ask her if it’s okay, first? Also, it occurred to me that Laurel Canyon would make a great stage name for, say, a singer, if it’s, that is, not already (of course it is). “Crystal Clear” (Ray Trainer)—beautiful, mostly acoustic song—the kind of song, if that was about me, I’d just about die. (Also, see what I said previously re: “stage name for singer.”) “She’s My Best Friend” (Don MacAllister)—not as good as the similarly named Velvet Underground song (nothing is), but a fine song nonetheless. “I Got My Reason”—not the Velvet Underground song (well, that’s “I Found a Reason,” I guess)—this song’s about freedom, equality, and so forth—it’s by Barry White (but doesn’t have one of those seven-minute-intro monologues that we’ll grow to love). “Holly Would” is nice, if a little folky and overwrought, works a pun hard—but, focusing on the lyrics—good lyrics. Also, it’s the inadvertent (or maybe advertent) inspiration for me to write a song called “Holly Wouldn’t” (if someone hasn’t already done it—which, of course, they have—and this song would overshadow it anyway). “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me”—is that some Barry White?!—nice. A decent version of the, of course, great (The Band) song, “The Weight.” Paul Williams-Roger Nichols’ “Bitter Honey”—better title than song (if it’s not, it should be a band name) (of course it is). “L.A.” (great song by JDS) is so inevitable sounding, you have to figure it must be the theme song of a TV show that ran for about 34 years and is still in syndication (that I somehow don’t know about, ha!) And finally, the gospel closer, “Too Close”—way too worldly for 26-year-old JDS—is she aging backwards, or what?

10.4.24

The Monkees “Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd.”

I wasn’t a big fan of The Monkees TV show—I watched it, because I watched everything when I was a kid—I watched enough TV for a whole generation. But it’s not something I remember fondly or search out or tune into on those odd, spotty, digital TV channels. For one thing, never in the entire history of comedy has the use of fast motion worked in a comic way—or been the least bit funny at all. And when something is trying to be funny, but is not, it’s not merely not funny, it’s also depressing, soul-crushing, and embarrassing. A strange land I know all too well. I’m sure there are some real gems among the xxx hours of surviving Monkees TV—stuff I could even discover—like, are there any women who I could have a time-travel Marcia Brady crush on? I can’t name a single episode or detail, however (except that famous one where Frank Zappa “plays” a car), even though I somehow know the names of the Monkees off the top of my head and remember what they look like and a little about their personalities—which, as far as I can remember—I had problems with—I mean, each of them, for different reasons—the way you might have problems with the characters on Scooby-Doo and Gilligan’s Island. What I didn’t realize is they were actual people (much like the kids on The Brady Bunch) who were collectively embroiled in a real-life version of that episode where Greg “fits the jacket.” But since I wasn’t a fan of their music (aside from the TV show theme—one of the great TV show theme songs! —and a couple of the monster hits) —I’d never bothered to read up on the real-life versions, the dramas, the ins and outs—etc.—until now. But to simply regurgitate Wikipedia on these matters at this point would be a disservice to both my 2 readers… and my 2 fingers (actually, 8, plus spacebar thumbs).

All that to say, I’m approaching this record as if I’ve never heard it—and I haven’t! —aside from the songs Jeff Curtis has played on his radio show. I like the album’s title! Back then (1967) astrology was akin to dropping LSD, and using “LTD” in place of the hallucinogen is a not-very-subtle, cynical nod to “the industry”—that ruined lives as sure as drugs did. The line drawing cover illustration would be at home in those Sixties grade school literature anthologies that I loved, even though the trippy, LSD plants are scary. The fact that you really have to look to even find the Monkees logo—and the four band members faces are absent—just blank spaces—yet you (even a non-fan) know exactly who each one, by name, represents —is a haughty declaration of fame. As is the songwriter rollcall of heavy-hitters who probably take up a good portion of the R&R Hall o’ Fame songwriters’ wing—even if it doesn’t represent some of their best work. (There are two Goffin/King tunes—usually my favs on any record—so it’s surprising I don’t like these more!) But I’m not here is dis geniuses while misspelling their names, so I’m going to stick to my very favorites among the 12 perfectly delightful but mostly uninspiring pop offerings (and one spoken word masterpiece). “Love Is Only Sleeping” (Mann/Weil) is my favorite from a Side One that should be better. It’s another classic among the long line of songs about erectile dysfunction, and it has some really odd percussion instrument that I have no idea what it is—almost sounds like a giant rattlesnake rattle! “Daily Nightly” is a Mike Nesmith song, sung by Micky, with a really dated psychedelic feel that I love, and it’s the most catchy song on the record—and includes some fun, self-indulgent, sounds-like-Moog-noodling. And finally, “Don’t Call on Me” (Nesmith/John London) which sounds so adult as to feel out of place (one of my favorite attributes) —a pretty, mellow, song that, for me, stands out. Does all this mean Mike is my favorite Monkee? Probably, though I’ve always wondered if he would have switched hats with John Phillips, if he could have (you know, in the alternate, mad-hatter universe and all). That’s all! —but… oh, right… we can’t forget the one track of pure 27-second genius (by Peter Thorkelson) —“Peter Percival Patterson’s Pet Pig Porky.” Mince tarts, indeed!

9.27.24

José Melis “José Melis Plays His TV Favorites”

I feel like I had a José Melis record in the past—I recognize him, big glasses, big teeth—he’s got a great look—but I don’t seem to have the record anymore, I just have this one. It’s got a good cover, a seemingly knocked-off, rough sketch of Melis at the piano—but it gets his likeness so well, it couldn’t be anyone else—it’s not a rough sketch, it’s an accomplished one—or maybe it’s a treated photograph—I can’t tell. There’s a feeling of motion, like he just opened the piano key lid, turned to face the camera (or sketch artist) with his huge smile. If you don’t let your brain finish the picture, his hand looks like a claw, his hair and sweater mere squiggly lines, his large, white teeth like unfinished canvas. The brain is amazing for its ability to fill in shit! The liner notes (by Lou Sidran), however, fill in plenty—his background in Cuba, his extensive training, Havana, Paris, Boston, his gig as musical director of The Tonight Show. I don’t remember ever seeing the Jack Paar era Tonight Show—too young—and when this record came out, in 1961, I guess I would still have been spending time in the crib? I don’t remember the crib—which is probably good—so I’ll deny it. I also don’t remember any of the TV appearances of any of these songs, in particular, though I do know some of the songs—there are some standards, and a couple of Melis originals. The performances of them on this record, José Melis on piano and bandleader, I guess, are uniformly breezy, jaunty, very show-biz and a bit corny—it all makes me happy. I probably heard this record in my crib—did maybe my parents have it? Was it on TV, and was the TV accompanying my confinement? It feels like it’s there somewhere way back in my brain—like it all sounds natural. Another funny thing is, this Mercury hi-fidelity (this record does sound great) recording’s additional liner note called: “HI-FInformation” (courtesy Hal Mooney) —some recording info, studio (Bell Sound, NYC), “Ampex tape recorder at 15 inches per second”— and also what mics were on what instruments (I won’t list them all, but like: “Reeds, Piano and Percussion—Telefunken U47”)—and etc.—probably great info if you’re a microphone nerd. And you are.

9.20.24

The Frank Vlasis Trio & Friends (“Tom Halker’s Red Mill presents…”)

“Surrey with the Fringe on Top” is a rough start, because it’s hard, with that song, not to sound like the jaunty animatronic house band at the Red Garter Saloon—unless your name is Blossom, or Miles. But then it picks up quite well. I love these local records dedicated to a band that plays at a local spot forever—because it’s an odd kind of document of a time and place and some real people. But when a record is this good and listenable, on top of it, it’s a bonus. The kind of album you’d find in the “North Woods” and go, “What the hell is this!” Not just because it’s unlikely—it’s also excellent. But since there’s no internet in the woods, you’ll have to use the “time machine”—and the time machine is this record, and its excellent liner notes by Mike Drew. While this 1980 album was recorded in a studio—and sounds like it—very well done (a variety of well-known standards and lesser-known tunes, including a fine Vlasis composition)—it documents the band that had a regular spot at Tom Halker’s Red Mill, a restaurant and tavern in Brookfield, Wisconsin—playing three nights a week—different focus each night (trio, Dixie, quartet) often with guest musicians, as on this record. Excellent cover photo shows eight guys in suit jackets—I believe seven of them are musicians on this record (there’s one guy, I’m not sure who he is—the only one with sunglasses, facial hair, and no rug—I love stuff like this). (Not to say the musicians aren’t sporting their own hair!) I found The Red Mill on a map—it’s like in the middle of a residential neighborhood. I’ve lived a few places in the past where a local inn would have a house band—it always felt special—and it is! The people who were regulars there at this time were quite lucky, because this is a hot band. They’re all good—including rhythm section, clarinet, trumpet, flugelhorn, and flugabone! Also, some occasional vocals. But Frank Vlasis on piano is extraordinary—virtuosic, as far as I can tell—in a variety of styles. I’m sure the audiences back then knew how special they were, because you’d have to hate music or be very drunk not to. Fine album—glad I found a copy—I’ll keep it next to the time machine. Wait—it is the time machine—and I’ve been stranded in 1980! Oh, well, I could still drink beer then… I think I’ll have a 60-cent draught.

9.13.24

Steely Dan “Countdown to Ecstasy”

There’s so much written about Steely Dan now (maybe this wasn’t always the case?) and, I admit, I’ve probably read a lot of it—I enjoy reading it. Even on my own website—a Steely Dan “page” where I write about individual songs, picked randomly, and try to decipher them without direct help from outside sources. As far as this album—its number just came up—so can I say anything I haven’t already said? I have an idea… I’ll pretend I just bought this record! In 1973 I would have been in junior high—though I don’t think I bought it until after I already had “Pretzel Logic”—the next year—so maybe 8th Grade, or 9th? Unfortunately, I don’t remember which one I had first. Either way, I liked the songs, and I thought the guys were very intriguing and funny. Only four songs per side—maybe that was why it was in the cutout bin? I have no idea what the name of the album means—it sounds like an advertisement for cigarettes, or else a Banacek episode. The first song is called “Bodhisattva”—almost too jaunty for me even back then—even more so now. “Razor Boy” sounds like jazz, but also has steel guitar—two things I didn’t like at that time (I know…) Now, of course, I like nothing better—but I was practically an old man before I fell in love with this song. I had no idea what it was about, but it made me think of razor clams. Next, “The Boston Rag”—implies more seafood—were these Boston guys? And what rag, exactly? But this song has an undeniable groove—then and now—and it was probably one of those songs that helped me develop what I like in a song—the quiet verse part with steady drums underneath. “Your Gold Teeth” was definitely a bummer for me back then—inscrutable, in spite of a lot of words I should understand. It is cinematic. Of course I love it, now, and I love this album. There was a brief time—back when I commenced that annoying habit of “ranking” everything—when I put this Steely Dan as number one. I can’t say that holds true now—although, now, I entirely refuse to rank them (unless being paid to do it).

I probably tried not to look too closely at the album cover (which looks like a watercolor)—lest one of the naked men in chairs reveal his penis—since you get the definite feeling that the cover might be continuing to morph… even after you get it home. Naturally, now, I very much like the cover, though I’ve just noticed that the chairs are odd—kind of a combination of desk chairs with arms, and tubular steel kitchen chairs—these chairs do not exist in nature. I’ve always loved the back cover, a full-size photo of the band in the studio, lots of lights, knobs, switches—it’s cold-tone black and white except for some red “on” lights and the smoldering cigarette in the foreground ashtray. Did I match the guys up with their credit names, back then? Probably not until much later—and even then, the first one to fascinate me was “Skunk.” Two of them have their feet up on the console, three look bored, two look impatient at the photographer’s intrusion, and they all look a bit insolent, surly, maybe pretentious, and not at all welcoming. Kind of good models for a 14-year-old about to start dealing more with people—including squares and authority figures. The guy with the ridiculous moustache is wearing an Olympia Beer shirt—which wasn’t as elusive as Coors, but I don’t think you could get it in Ohio. I believed it was good beer, perhaps favored by Clint Eastwood (he drank it in like every movie but the Spaghetti Westerns).

Side Two… things really take off—that first song, “Show Biz Kids”—I’d never heard anything like it. Background singers singing something over and over that I couldn’t make out, exactly—and crazy guitar. I can make out Fagen’s words, however, about poor people, and stars—which must be movie stars, and Steely Dan T-shirts—and the show biz kids—whoever they may be—they “don’t give a fuck” about anybody else. First time I ever heard “fuck” in a pop song? No doubt. Then the song that really sold me, “My Old School,” with all of its collegiate references (which, when you’re 14, is more adult than adult). Even though there’s underlying anger (“never going back”) it still oozes nostalgia for the college life. Or maybe that was my take—we visited my friend’s older brother (who may have been the one to “turn us on” to Steely Dan) at Kenyon College, and my imagination did the rest—and I always connected this song to that. Despite the anger—which I guess was exciting to me—“California tumbles into the sea, that’ll be the day I go back to Annandale” (wherever that is, his old school) —and he really means it—and I pick up an expression I can pull out sometime. “Pearl of The Quarter”—too pretty and too country for my young self—it would be a while before I gravitated to the beautiful, slow stuff, but I like to think I still found the melody irresistible. “King of The World” was just purely alienating, and it still has an unpleasant edge, sounding like it’s coming from a car that’s driving down the tunnel to Hell—but had I taken in the lyrics back then (no lyric sheet and no internet) I might have been able to categorize it along with those apocalyptic Charlton Heston movies I loved so much. Okay… kept it under a thousand words, Ma! Top o’ the world!

9.6.24

Tommy Roe “Jam Up Jelly Tight” / “Moontalk”

As per a previous Tommy Roe review, “Dizzy” was my favorite 45 and is one of my fav songs to this day—but I don’t remember even having this record—yet here it is. I knew the song, “Jam Up Jelly Tight” from the “12 In A Roe” compilation (one of my first LPs), but there are at least four songs on that record I like better than this one (including “Dizzy,” “Jack & Jill,” “Hooray for Hazel,” and “Sweet Pea”)! This is a fine bubblegum pop song, but some of the lyrics always bugged me, like, “I said the first day I met you, someday I’m gonna pet you.” Ewww. Don’t need that! Also, jam and jelly? A little on the graphic side. Still, both of these songs have excellent production and fine playing from, I presume, studio musicians, who I can’t find credited, (Though—if I’m remembering correctly—I tracked down the “Dizzy” credits to the “Wrecking Crew”—so that’s a guess—but I don’t know). Anyway, I figured this would be a quick, low-wordcount (for a change) review, with a dismissible B-side. I should have known better, really (I’m a sucker for “Moon” songs)—but I didn’t expect it to be a crazy rabbit hole.

Somehow, I never heard this B-side, “Moontalk,” until now! I don’t ever remember hearing this anywhere. It’s a terrific, catchy, pop song, written by Tommy Roe, about the moon landing—which was the year this record is credited—1969. Interesting lyrics. There’s a short phrase that sounds like Latin to me—what can that be? But I listen more closely, and I think it’s: “Lunar gossip.” (Which makes sense.) It sounds like the lyrics are referencing the event already having happened, “The headlines in the papers” and “Armstrong was the first.” But then… I have to be a wise guy and go rooting around on the internet—see if I can find anyone discussing this song. I didn’t dig deep enough, but I did see several versions on YouTube—listen to one—and… it’s an entirely different song! Well, it’s the same song, but it’s a completely different version—a crazy, psychedelic folk/pop rendition with insane background vocals that almost overwhelm the lead vocals. Also, tape played backwards, whatever that’s called—“backmasking.” (Maybe he’s saying, “It’s a hoax, it’s a hoax!” Ha.)

How is this! I thought this wasn’t even an album track. So, I look up the discography, and this earlier, more bizarre version—“Moon Talk” (two words)—was on an album that came out in 1967. Which is weird, considering that Armstrong line, so I listen more closely, and this one says: “Wondering who’ll be first” —instead of “Armstrong was the first.” So that makes sense, after all. And thinking about it, I figured that he first recorded it referencing the Space Race, or Moon Race, and then, after the actual moon landing, decided to re-record it—with that slight change of lyrics. I love that crazy, earlier, psychedelic version, just because of how weird it is, but the newer version is actually a better song, I think—just because the production and studio musicians are so good. Or… maybe not—kinda torn—I’m half and half (blame it on the moon). Either way, it’s a great song (or, two great songs), neither of which you ever hear. (You can find both versions on YouTube.) I’m wondering if there were other Space Race novelty songs—I’m sure there were. (I wonder if this one was in influence on the “Please Mr. Kennedy” song in Inside Llewyn Davis.)

Now… one more thing. The fact that the song connected with me so strongly makes me wonder if I did hear it before, somewhere. And this gets me wondering, now, if they included this song in a movie I recently saw, Fly Me to the Moon (2024)—a rom-com about the moon landing—it would have fit perfectly, because Tommy Roe works timeless romance in with the contemporary, larger-than-life event: “Spacemen they have been there / on that lovelight as it hangs there.” And: “I just hope with people there / It won’t affect the young / Who for many centuries / Have fell in love beneath that moon above.” The movie did have a fine, mostly R&B soundtrack. This song would have been perfect for the after credits song (that is, the song that plays after the song that comes up when the credits start—and then takes you to the end of the credits). Of course, no one would have heard it—since no one (and I mean no one—since Dave Monroe passed away) stays until the end of the credits. Still, I wish—it would have made this an even deeper cut than it already is.

8.30.24

Dory Previn “Mary C. Brown and the Hollywood Sign”

The first Dory Previn record I heard—found it a few years ago—it’s from 1972, so I guess I only had to wait forty-some years to hear it—this is not one that came up when I was in Junior High. It’s got a great album cover, large photos of the Hollywood sign, the “Holly” part on back (blue sign, yellow sky—in negative), the “wood” part on front (blue sky, yellow sign), but it folds out, so you see it whole, but disjointed. Artist and title are in barely legible font, and there’s a tiny photo (exactly the size of a nickel—you might miss it) of Dory Previn at the edge of this sign—maybe the smallest photo of a musical artist on the cover of their album (vinyl), ever? Inside are lyrics, in typewriter font, indicating literariness, and not using any caps, which usually indicates craziness.

It makes sense with this record to just go through song by song. First is the title song, a jaunty number about the sign, a beacon for dreamers and the misguided, and how Mary Cecilia Brown, disillusioned at not becoming a star, jumped to her death off the letter “H”—and thus finally attained some level of fame. It’s the same old story, you’ve heard it. It would be interesting to determine, at this point—if this was possible—if anyone at all has fuzzy, glowing feelings about that sign—I mean without at least some degree of cynicism. “The Holy Man on Malibu Bus Number Three” (my favorite song on the record) is a really pretty one—also a bit mystical, a childhood memory about seeing an old man on the bus who noticed she had “two diff’rent eyes” that see opposites (which I believe the album cover is referring to). And “the child who sees both at once is the child who is destined for pain.” The man then transfers to bus that’s no longer in service. I don’t have the energy or word allotment to begin to unpack “The Midget’s Lament”—but I think it’s partly about how when people focus on the most obvious part of your identity, they cease to see anything else. “When a Man Wants a Woman”—“he’s called a hunter, but when an woman wants a man, she’s called a predator.” The short, quiet song elaborates. “Cully Surroga, He’s Almost Blind”—there’s a song title—and a nutso song, not sure what all it’s about exactly—but in part, a disturbing mediation on parenting. Another of my favorites, “Left Hand Lost,” is about left-handedness, and the tragedy of conforming lefties to the “more moral” righthandedness.

Second side—the haunting and beautiful “The Perfect Man”—who’s it about? All men?—nice line: “Perfection is the lie that covers up the fear we unsuccessfully try to hide away.” Then (long title)—“Starlet Starlet On the Screen, Who Will Follow Norma Jean?”—it’s the catchiest song on the record, great song. And we’re back to Hollywood—it’s pretty straightforward—starts out: “Who do you have to fuck to get into this picture?” She stretches out “fu-uk” to two syllables—as if it’s needed to fit rhythmically… but it has the nice effect of taking the harshness off that word—without diminishing its meaning. She saves the best for last, “If that’s anyone’s idea of heaven… who do you have to fuck to get into hell?” (Hooray for Hollywood.) “Don’t Put Him Down” is the prettiest, most sensitive song about erectile dysfunction (I think—could be ED is metaphorical for failure, or the other way around) I’ve heard in a while. Nice line: “Hey looka him, he’s a male, but it’s the wail of the weary minstrel, it’s the dance of the desperate clown singing don’t put me down if I fail.” “King Kong” wears out its welcome faster even than (any of) the movies—it’s too jaunty and too obvious (fear of “the other,” I guess). And, finally, a medley. One day, the “medley” will thankfully be phased out of art and cuisine (left only for sports), but I guess this was intended to be some sort of musical, so I’ll allow it—well, it’s undeniable. “Morning Star/Evening Star” (“mortal immortal/icicle and flame/feminine and masculine/and I am the same”). “Jesus Was a Androgyne” (“Jesus was a freako baby/just like you and me”). “Anima/Animus” (“you are… god”). Wraps it all up! And in true musical fashion, brings it full circle. Last word, “God”—and the record ends with an extended, loud, falsetto, vibrato-ing note. It’s impressive (as you leap for the volume knob)—though, I have to add, they missed the opportunity for a truly awe-inspiring lock groove.

8.23.24

Dan Hill “Longer Fuse”

I’m in the North Woods, still no internet up here, breakfast at a place that still uses a cash register. The cabin I’ve rented has an old hi-fi, but the LP selection is dismal (90% Christmas, 10% water-damaged), so I headed out to an antique store and picked up some interesting looking records—focusing on artists I know nothing about. This one, a 1977 album, “Longer Fuse” is by Dan Hill. Named after, I’m assuming, that joke from the 1975 movie, Jaws (“You’re gonna need a longer fuse!”)—I also liked it for the cover (and knowing nothing about it). For context, that’s the year Steely Dan’s “Aja” came out (which provides no context, really, but I’m just curious if there was any confusion, since Dan Hill is also (presumably) known as “Dan.” (Coincidentally, two other “Dans” also released records that year [both, coincidentally, focused on the theme of “oral sex”]—Dan Fogelberg’s “Nether Lands,” and England Dan & John Ford Coley’s “Dowdy Ferry Road.”) The reason I was drawn to the cover is because the photo of (I assume) Dan Hill reminds me of a guy we used to call “The Yogurt Man” who frequented my record store in Ohio (this was 1981). Called that because he ate yogurt—it occurs to me, now, that it wasn’t very nice (but are nicknames, really, ever very nice?) It occurs to me now that the ribbing was misplaced; what we were really picking on was the quart-sized container of Dannon “Vanilla” yogurt, which is, let’s face it, pretty gross (and if you accidentally buy the “nonfat” version, entirely inedible!) Anyway, seeing how that was 1981, and this record came out in 1977, it’s possible we might have populated our miscellaneous bins with a copy of this—and an even more unlikely possibly is that the “Yogurt Man” was none other than Dan Hill!

Upon closer examination, however, that’s unlikely, because the first thing evident upon touching the Victrola’s needle to vinyl is that this was a hit record! The first song, “Sometimes When We Touch” is immediately recognizable as a major, late-Seventies, Casey Kasem. I didn’t recognize the song title, but the song came right back to me like an emotional trauma. I’m just kidding, it’s not that bad, but there’s no going back once you burn a song like that into the ol’ gray matter. The rest of the record doesn’t ring any similar bells, so I’m able to listen to it as if for the first time (well, it probably is the first time, actually!) Emotional singer-songwriter fare, lyric-heavy, love songs, some politics, some anguish, some joy. He’s a good songwriter and an excellent singer. Interesting… reading over the credits (the LP folds out with lyrics and etc.) I noticed that “Sometimes When We Touch” is co-written by Barry Mann (is it that Barry Mann?) Is it possible that the guy who co-wrote “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” is responsible for the earworm in question? Also, the credits indicate that Dan Hill is Canadian (which is neither here nor there, though I suppose you could say, rather than here… Canada). On the back cover he’s standing (wearing the same green and white striped shirt as on the cover—I love when people do that) in front of some architectural monstrosity. That, and the oppressive hazy-green hue evokes an “under the sea” vibe. One last thing (I’m already going on way too long [North Woods])—the album cover font makes me think of the “Foreigner” (band) font—that band was committed to running that font into the ground! And it occurs to me, that also in 1977, I saw Foreigner, live, in Bowling Green, Ohio (opening for the Doobie Brothers), so I wonder, considering the hit song, if Dan Hill toured, and if I was this far from seeing him?

I really hate to do this (to the reader —Ha! —what reader?) but I feel like I have to come clean. It’s true that when I saw this record in the store, I thought, that’s interesting, there’s someone I never heard of, so, nice, I can have an open mind, and see what’s there. Then, when I got home, I realized I already had this record! And when I listened to it, I had the vaguest flashback of seeing it in the store, the first time, and thinking: There’s someone I never heard of!—and when I listened to that song, “Sometimes When We Touch,” I realized, Oh, that’s that hit song from sometime in the past (high school years) that I’ll never be able to forget! So my apologies to Dan Hill (and to the Yogurt Man, if he’s still around) for the mix-up. At least I’ve had the excuse to listen to this record a few times, and now it’s growing on me, mostly because of his intensely involved lyrics and forceful singing, which for me, elevates it from other similar soft-rock pop, which it is, production-wise. My favorite songs are “14 Today” (again, the singing, and lyrics), “McCarthy’s Day” (about his, I believe, multiracial parents, dealing with racism), “Jean,” and “Southern California” (the singing on that one—he really goes for it). Sounds good, here at home. There is no Victrola. Well… there is part of me that just wishes there was no internet—and I’d have to approach every record at “face value”—just on what I’m hearing (and the cover, of course). And then, besides that, you’d need to have knowledgeable friends. Of course, there’d be the library, as well—though, that microfiche was always a pain to deal with. And now the library is where people go to use the internet. And, of course, the internet’s everywhere, now, even in the north woods. I think—I don’t really know—I’m not really in the north woods. I’m still back in town. Also, I don’t think there really is a place called the north woods.

8.16.24

Barry White “Beware!”

I like this record a lot. That could be the review, if all I was doing was writing reviews, which is not what I’m doing. Rather, I’m using the “guise” of the review to listen to music—and allowing listening to be both enjoyable and make me think about a few things. I’ve got a few Barry White records from the Seventies, which I listen to as frequently as anything. There are just certain times when Barry White is who I want to listen to (and I’m not even dating). I like his songs and I like his style. I picked up this one cheap—even though I had misgivings about it—well, the thing that potentially scared me off is the date—1981—which is a date that generally scares me off (well, I’m wary of anything after about 1975). That, and the album cover said: “Beware!” A strong word based on a strong feeling. Also, ten songs—which means some shorter songs, which also worried me. Also, the cover looks like a Greyhound bus seat. Actually, there’s probably a story behind the cover image, which might (almost certainly) make it better (or even great?) But as an abstract image, while you wouldn’t mind it in an art museum, and you might even like it—as an album cover? Which is just accentuated by reproducing the entire album cover on back—but in reverse (including “Barry White Beware!”) Mirror image. The huge, all caps, basic block letter “BARRY WHITE” on top is effective, certainly. But oddly, no picture of Barry White, anywhere, why? Anyway, the nice thing to note is that this record is an indication that it’s possible I might really like any Barry White record, regardless of the decade, its popularity, or reviews—and since there are a dozen I don’t have—there’s still a world of Barry White out there for me to discover.

The songs are bookended by two covers from the Fifties—“Beware”—and a long (seven minute) version of “Louie Louie” (a song that’s been covered by literally everyone)—to close it out. I always enjoy anyone’s take on “Louie Louie”—it seems important to try to do something weird with it, for some reason, and this is one of the more experimental ones I’ve heard. Odd, repeated vocal phrases all over the place—and some almost dissonant horns—it gives the impression of a harrowing homecoming more than a happy one. But then, “Louie Louie” was always a harrowing song. Less challenging is the slow, soul song “Beware”—an understated love song with a nice intro. Generally, what I like about Barry White is his intros, with minimal, mellow accompaniment, and then his spoken seductions to an unseen woman usually referred to as “baby.” Even when they’re fairly short, like the second song, “Relax to the Max,” it’s effective. “Let Me In and Let’s Begin with Love” must have been a hit—or is otherwise familiar to me—it’s a little more up-tempo soul number—kind of the centerpiece of the record, feels like—fairly extended. (Interesting side note: it’s got some oddly recorded percussion like I noticed with another of his records—it sounds like it’s in the room with me.) Another odd thing is that there are two just over two-minute songs on the record (“Tell Me Who Do You Love” and “You’re My High”—which are more like intros to longer songs than songs—maybe they just kind of function as intros to what comes after? But I wish both were longer, like seven minutes each! “Rio De Janeiro” is a straight up disco song, my least favorite on the record, but probably someone’s favorite—I mean, you can dance, and it’s about a city. A couple more excellent, soulful, love songs with great titles—the very, very mellow, “Oooo….Ahhh….” and the super catchy “I Won’t Settle for Less Than the Best (For You Baby)”—he can sure come up with the titles.

8.9.24