Europa Jazz – Dollar Brand / Bill Evans Trio / Charles Lloyd Quartet / Michael White Quartet

This is one of those records that gives me anxiety, since there are four distinct groups, or “combos,” performing (all live, by the way, recorded wildly different years), so I don’t know how to organize it. That’s what I’m worried about? That’s what I have anxiety about? Spelling it out like that allows me to see how silly I’m being. But really—how do I title this review? Wing it! (see above). It’s a 1981 Italian product (Italy’s part of Europa—one of Jupiter’s largest moons). There are only five songs on the record, so I may as well say a little about each one as I’m listening. First there’s the Charles Lloyd Quartet performing: “Twin Pearls” (1967)—starts right in with that saxophone (tenor, I think, Charles Lloyd), and then there’s the high-pitched soprano sax (Keith Jarrett) trying to sound like it’s on its own plain/plane/in pain—but it just can’t help itself and joins in. The drums and bass come in, and they all go nuts for a while, and then eventually get a little goofy. I know Keith Jarrett, of course, for piano records—though I don’t know much about him. I had an album of his when I was a kid that fascinated me (don’t remember why/lost it) and I have a few of his records now. Charles Lloyd has an impressive discography and is still with us.

“Ubu Suku,” credited to Dollar Brand, performed by Dollar Brand on piano, with bass and drums—sounds initially like Thelonious Monk playing “Memories of You.” That first chord. And then some of that melody. And it continues to sound somewhat like Monk, and occasionally other songs, including that one—and others I don’t know but kind of remember. But, as well, this does not sound like Thelonious Monk—but Dollar Brand—I suppose. He’s from South Africa, and since 1968 (converted to Islam) has gone by Abdullah Ibrahim (this recording is 1961). His first records (that I see listed, internet-wise) are from1960—including the excellently titled (and possibly Monk-influenced?) “Dollar Brand Plays Sphere Jazz.” And he’s still at it.

Next, the Michael White Quartet preforming (1971) “Ballad for Mother” (White) with Michael White playing violin, along with piano, bass, and percussion (fine band, look them up!) This is really some nutso stuff, very interpretive—of something—feelings, I guess, though it strikes me as cinematic, I can kind of see a narrative, even if I can’t read it. I wonder what Mrs. White thinks? (I don’t know if that’s her name, but I’m being cute because of the “Clue” game—of course, we don’t really know if the song is literal and/or autobiographical.) Michael White (not the filmmaker, ex-Cleveland Mayor, clarinetist, or countless other Michael Whites) was an avant-garde jazz and jazz-rock fusion violinist, and he played with an odd assortment of visionaries that I’m not going to list (internet).

Finally, Bill Evans Trio, two songs (1961)—first, the standard, “Autumn Leaves,” followed by “Time Remembered,” an Evans number. Bill Evans and his fine trio (I’m not typing all the names—I’m spent—and not a jazz radio station DJ). One of the odder versions of “Autumn Leaves” I’ve heard (and I’ve heard 1,768)—only four minutes long and half of that is a bass solo. “Time Remembered” is a beautiful, contemplative ballad. I could listen to stuff like this all my waking hours, every day—even though it does start going somewhere after a while—I mean, going somewhere that’s not quite the somewhere I’m going. One has to ask oneself, then, if I’m going where I’m going, and it’s going where it’s going, but I keep listening, is it because I’m too petered to change the record, or do I like that split—like traveling down one of two parallel roads that aren’t exactly parallel, and your lover, in the other car, gets incrementally smaller—even though you’re seemingly not getting any further apart. But then you realize that no matter how connected you are, you’re both going to be dead someday. It’s a good song.

The cover opens up and there are live-in-performance photos of each of the band leaders along with some extensive liner notes by… can’t find the credit anywhere on the record. I tried reading this text (approximately as long as this review) but found it quite impenetrable. It seems to be well-written—maybe it’s just me—I’ve been having trouble, lately—I just want to sleep. These liner notes might be coffee writing, so maybe I need coffee to read it. I’ll try again in the morning. The stylized cover is largely a big, silver “J” along with a tiny, black “EUROPA” and large, black “Jazz.” Song titles and combo names (full credits on back). Oddly, in large red letters, there are just four of the prominent artists present (weirdly omitting Bill Evans, while including Keith Jarrett—for “torturin’ the Kenny G”). There’s also a postcard sized photo of an ugly city skyline at sunset—I have no idea what city, though it does resemble Chicago (the photographer would have to be in a boat on Lake Michigan). Are there clues in the liner notes? I’ll have to wait for the coffee. (Whoops… forgot to, and the steamer, SS Coffee Ambition, has since sailed.)

6.14.24

Mark Eitzel “Hey Mr Ferryman”

I admire when someone has all the records by their favorite artist(s)—they’re that kind of a fan—as well as going to great lengths to see them live. As much as I love the music of quite a few—I don’t have all of it by anyone—I’m neither that deep-pocketed nor dedicated—even though I do consider myself a fanatic (when it comes to music I love). I’m not even going to count up the releases by Mark Eitzel or his former band, American Music Club—but I have a hodgepodge, incomplete collection—digital, CD, cassette, and very limited vinyl. I used to have all the early AMC albums—another casualty of moving, I guess. I don’t listen to him all the time—you have to be in the proper mood—but then, I don’t listen to anyone regularly—it’s always mini-periods of obsession—or else whenever my random system calls on me to write something—and that’s the case today. And I rarely see anyone live anymore—can’t tolerate bars, or crowds—and crowded bars—no. But imagine, if you will, an opportunity arises to see your favorite artist (one who has the unique quality of being very different live and on record—but taking both to some kind of singular extreme). And the show is affordable, on the bus line, and limited to an intimate group of sane people—in someone’s living room. That transpired, a few years back, not long after this 2017 record came out—if I remember correctly. Part of a unique touring system put on by a collective called Undertow—how does this even work? I mean, some acts are too popular, too loud, too avaricious—won’t work. And I’m sure some audiences would find this kind of thing weird (for me, I’d pay just to visit the living rooms!)—but where there’s a sweet spot, I guess—the fans benefit. I was kind of shocked it worked with Mark Eitzel, as the last time I’d seen him was with a band at a good-sized theater. And he is, after all, currently the best working songwriter of popular music out there (that’s my opinion, but you’re free to agree). Also, I (as a person who is decidedly not a concertgoer) have seen him about once a decade, starting with the late Seventies. Can that even be? Those shows were all unique and memorable. He’s maybe overly attuned to the audience—he feels volatile—and like you could potentially alter the very show by your audience presence/honest reaction. He’s also personable, inspiring, and as funny (I’m not saying like a clown) as anyone—often hilarious as he is heartbreaking.

Now, as far as this record—it’s so-so as an object—but I’m just not crazy about contemporary vinyl—why? As a generalization—too expensive, too heavy, too thick, no liner notes, uninspiring visually—and that includes the minimalist labels. But I’m happy I bought this one—it’s an inspired collection of ten songs that I’m still trying to get a handle on. I won’t compare it to other Eitzel and AMC releases (but it’s right up there). I’m going to approach it—right now—in a way that’s fun for me—song by song. I’m not, however, going to list the names of the songs (or quote the lyrics, exactly). 1. The “Ferryman” in question doesn’t take long to make an appearance—the catchiest song on the record—but he’s taking the singer to his rest—which means? Not good. Or maybe at peace? 2. Next is the prettiest (and saddest) song on the record—and he is addressing that you—who—I think—seems to be beyond reach. I’ve already noticed that the sung lyrics don’t match exactly to the lyric sheet… which I find… kind of exciting. Not even close. 3. Another bar, and more hopelessness. 4. This next one, I think, a beautiful song about love—but love is never mentioned—though a chain is mentioned… a lot. 5. A really grim song about gambling—whether literally, or gambling as a metaphor—does it matter? Kind of left me on the ledge, but… side two is sure to… 1. Well, this first one is devastating. And it’s also really, really funny. But devastating. When someone says how can you go on, it doesn’t usually refer to the second song on side two of a record. But I go on. 2. Mr. Humphries appears to be a specific reference that I don’t know—but want to, because he seems singularly heroic, the way the song builds, then reduces to near nothing, then builds again, very emotional. 3. Another disturbing reference I don’t get (and feel like I should—yikes) (no internet)—but it makes for a blood, wine, more blood, rocker.  4. A love song—when was the last time someone asked me if I believed in love? Seemed to stop after a while—but maybe that’s not everyone’s experience—so, yeah… refer to this song. (Interesting, there’s a song on the lyric sheet that’s not on the record. Really good lyrics, too—well, it’s out there, somewhere.) 5. One more—a lullaby. And that last verse! After all that utter devastation, he gives us this last, quiet, poem—to continue to stumble along with.

6.7.24

Sandy Posey “featuring I Take It Back”

This is an excellent Sandy Posey record—maybe her third album, from 1967. I don’t know if I like it more than the others I have—possibly. I’m not going to get them out and play them all and compare them, right now, okay? I’ll save that for a rainy day. The songs are all good—if there’s a real standout, killer song, it’s “Halfway to Paradise.” Who wrote that one? Oh, Carole King and Gerry Goffin—which shouldn’t even surprise me—on how many records is the best song written by them? Who did this song first? Billy Fury’s version and Tony Orlando’s version are similar—and I do recognize one or both, from my little kid radio days, I guess. I don’t like them nearly as much as this one—why? First of all, their singing is good, but l like Sandy Posey’s just as much, better—and then, it’s the arrangement on this record—it really makes that song something different. There’s no specific credited arranger on this song, so maybe it was the producer, Chips Moman. I’m wondering if this was recorded in Memphis at his American Sound Studio? At any rate, some excellent studio musicians are also making this song what it is. I don’t know who—no credits mentioned on this MGM product. How did they do it back then? No internet, no social media—I guess word of mouth—maybe everyone paid more attention.

Besides that song, my next favorite is “Bread and Butter”—what a great name for a song—it makes me want to write a song with that title. Because where are you going to go with that? Besides either, “you’re,” “he’s,” or “she’s” my bread and butter—i.e., it’s about sex. (Which, in this song, the key change highlights.) Not to be confused with The Newbeats classic (“He likes bread and butter/he likes toast and jam”—that brainworm)—which is literally about bread and butter (unless it’s, as I suspect, about cunnilingus). Anyway, this one—you can’t get much more corny—but the thing is, this song is so catchy, you don’t care. Well, you do care, that’s the point. It’s a great song—written by Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham. I could never touch it—so… abandoning that project. It’s maybe my favorite on the record. But that’s taking nothing away from the rest—what else? Last song, “Come Softly to Me,” another classic. “I Take It Back” reminds me of a Skeeter Davis song (maybe she did this one, I don’t know)—it has a talking part verse and sung chorus—it’s good. Sandy Posey and Skeeter Davis get compared with each other, sometimes, it seems (well, there’s a back-to-back record, one on each side). I always think of S.D. as more country and S.P. as more pop—but that’s not strictly true, and it varies from record to record—and even on single records. Plus, I haven’t heard everything by each of them! What else? “Standing in the Rain” is a catchy, emotional, sad song. “The Big Hurt” is another bummer song—in a good way! “Sunglasses” is one that Skeeter Davis did do, for sure.

Good back cover liner notes, by Martha Sharp—anyone who uses an expression like: “I was flipped right out of my mind”—is going to keep me reading! She’s a songwriter—wrote “Single Girl” and “Born a Woman”—hits from the earlier records. None on this record, she says, because “she got lazy.” But at least she provided the excellent, funny, liner notes. And then there’s that cover photo! Almost life-size Sandy Posey—but if it was any bigger, it would be too intense. She is emerging from the bottom left corner, half side-ways and coming at us—the room is dark—you can almost make out some furniture. Super shallow focus, so that even the mole on her left collarbone is a bit blurred, and the sequined party dress partially abstracted. Of course, her face and eyes (crucial) are in sharp focus—I guess the pupils are what you “focus” on—which (this sounds like a joke, but it’s true) is because that’s what you focus with. You can look right inside her pupils, here, and practically see the photographer. It makes me think of that scene in Blade Runner (1982) where Deckard “enhances” a photo to such a degree as to derive clues from the reflection in some glass. (Sandy Posey’s dress also makes me think of the snake scales left behind by the replicant, Zhora—same movie.)

5.31.24

Walter Huston “September Song” / “Lost in the Stars”

This 45 feels like it’s the oldest thing I own—it’s not, of course—I probably have older records, and I have some coins with dates on them going way back, and I have books that are 100 years old—but considering that this is a high-fidelity advanced technology music transmission device—it’s kind of amazing—hearing old Walter Huston right here in the room with me. He was born in the 1800s, after all (died in 1950). He was in a ton of movies, didn’t make a ton of records. My best guess for this one (via internet) is 1947. He released “September Song” a decade earlier, which might be this recording, or maybe this is a later version, I don’t know. I’m not going to worry about it—I’m just enjoying this 2:27 version of the Kurt Weill and Maxwell Anderson (lyrics) classic that was recorded by everyone. “September Song” is one of those tunes that runs through my head frequently—I should record it. I like “Lost in the Stars” even better, actually. Recorded with Victor Young and His Orchestra. Walter Huston’s voice sounds like the oldest, old-timey thing in town—it’s almost spoken—I really like it. The vinyl is black and the label is that maroon Decca label with silver print—that probably puts a relative date on it—it’s almost contemporary. I’m imagining frequent repressings—a popular enough record. This one likely spent time in someone’s living room hi-fi console cabinet, then in a box in the basement, lingering at a garage sale, wasting away at a thrift store, and resting in my old sewing kit 7-inch box. On the turntable, and it’s alive again, like a Walter Huston hologram—time travel’s no problem.

5.24.24

Arthur Lyman “Love for Sale!”

That album cover! —you can almost feel the razor burn—and get a nose full of smellgood. Lifesize, closeup, in-focus, photo of… either Arthur Lyman or someone who looks even more like Arthur Lyman than Arthur Lyman—bigger than life! I was going to say the portrait photo is larger than human scale, but I measured his head—ten inches from chin to scalp—and then measured my own—the same! Also, his fingernails are the same size as mine—so I guess this is exactly life-size! And this is before photoshop, so you’ve got to hand it to his skin care team—just the proximity alone to whatever gel he’s got molding that black hair would be enough to get most people’s pores competing with the volcano eruptions pictured on the covers of many other Arthur Lyman records. People had guts back then—didn’t let a few nose hairs or out-of-control eyebrows bother them. I’m joking, but I find him quite attractive, and I’m sure, as well, did the many Arthur Lyman fans who fell in love with this, his 12th or so LP. After all, the record is called “Love for Sale!”—and there’s a theme going on—11 of the 12 songs have the word “love” in their titles. (One of the songs is called, “Love.”) The odd man out, then, is “Sentimental Journey.” Which makes me think of something.

On Pere Ubu’s 1978 debut LP, “The Modern Dance” (one of the best records of all time) there’s a song called “Sentimental Journey,” as well—it’s a great song. (Coincidentally, among the other songs on the record, none of them have the word “love” in their titles.) Was Arthur Lyman an influence on Pere Ubu? To me, it sounds like everything went through the Ubu influence grinder. But this imagines a direct exotica-to-Pere Ubu connection. Another thing to consider… the song “Sentimental Journey”—when lyrics are present—such as the Doris Day version—rhymes journey with “yearny.” But you won’t find that here. The only singing here is the jungle animal sound effects. Are there any exotica records with vocals? There must be, but I don’t know enough of them to be able to say for sure. I do have a few exotica records—and have had a few in the past that I lost—and I can/could put them on at any time, always enjoy them. But for all that, I don’t have any kind of sense who is my favorite—or which records are my favorites. I mean, it doesn’t all sound the same, of course, but I just haven’t gone into the exotica that deeply. I like this record as much as any I’ve heard, I guess. It’s not exactly stripped-down, but it’s also not overly busy, and there’s a lot of dynamics, and some really quiet, mellow moments. The band is a four-piece, and Arthur Lyman’s vibes are at the front of everything—occasionally getting really bizarre—going into outer space. Talking about outer space, the three paragraphs of uncredited liner notes are fine, but just subtly weird enough to make me feel like I’m on drugs. (I refuse to excerpt, sorry.) Or… if the drug thing is too harsh—maybe someone who is just learning a new language. What language? The language of love.

5.17.24

Silver Convention “Get Up and Boogie (That’s Right)” / “Son of a Gun”

I’ve lost all patience, I admit, with the internet, social media, this website—the constant hustle just trying to get anyone to listen. I should probably stop writing about records I don’t even like, because I have no energy for “research”—and while I do have nostalgia for many dumb things in my past, I have none for most TV shows and quite a lot of music—including disco. But anyway, here’s a 45 with an attractive label—half yellow, half white—“Midland International”—it’s got more info on it than Encyclopedia Britannica—two dates, 1974, 1976—and under the song titles: “A Butterfly Production by Michael Kunze, An Original Jupiter Recording”—I don’t want to automatically say that sounds like there was coke involved, but come on. I mean “Get Up and Boogie” is a pretty great song—it’s mostly a repetition of several women singers singing “Get up and boogie,” though they occasionally vary that with… “Boogie.” Genius. The thing about the song I don’t like is that periodically the music stops and what sounds like several fraternity brothers shout, “That’s right!” I’m guessing for many, that “makes” the song—but for me, quite the opposite. I guess I could do a remix of the song, cut out the “That’s rights!”—but then, I’m imagining, I’d be tempted to add in something equally as dumb—like “Speen sauce!” Okay, maybe not that dumb.

The B-Side, “Son of a Gun,” is just as good—well, I like it way better (mostly due to it not having gym-short guys singing “That’s right!” all though it). But it’s a pretty great song, actually. The women intermittently sing, “You son of a gun”—which, I believe is intended, in this context, as a woman berating a man. Maybe I’m wrong—but that’s the impression I get, because between those outbursts we hear a man singing (so low and mumbly I can’t really make out the words) a kind of Barry White inspired sleaze-talking. The problem is—“you son of a gun” is never an expression used in anger at someone—it’s always an expression of approval (used with an ironic twist). So, maybe it’s the language barrier here that’s the problem—Silver Convention is a German group, after all. But for me, this is no problem at all—it’s what makes the song—well, that and the soaring instrumental parts that are very cinematic—kind of “Theme from Shaft” inspired. But what if I’m wrong about all this? I’ll have to listen to it REALLY LOUD to see what the low-voiced guy is saying. Well, I still can’t understand what he’s saying, and the neighbors are complaining, but it sounds like he’s trying to get the women to forgive him for some indiscretion, while, at the same time, trying to “get busy” with them. Pretty much what I’d imagined. It is a great song—I guess I like this record after all—and it’s put me in a much better mood! (Why I persist.)

5.10.24

José Miguel Class “Trofeos Otorgados A José Miguel Class – El Gallito De Manati”

Without knowing anything about this record, I really like it just for how much of a time and place it sounds—it gives me the feeling of, say, the Forties (1940s)—even though I wasn’t remotely born yet, so I don’t really know what it would be like living then—what music I’d be hearing on the wind. Also, the feeling of a far-off (from Wisconsin, that is) land, such as one where English isn’t the primary language—and I guess it’s Spanish—and is sung in a very romantic, emotive style—bordering on corny—but good corny. I’d only be off by a few decades—in the Forties, José Miguel Class would have been a young boy, in Manati, Puerto Rico—maybe listening to music that sounds like this? According to the internet, he was born in the Thirties—grew up to be a famous singer in Puerto Rico, and later moved to Mexico. The “Discogs” site lists 85 record releases—but I can’t find one that matches to this record, exactly. My best guess is that it’s from the Seventies, though I may be wrong. You can use your internet to translate—somewhat—but you still need the context to really get it right. I don’t know what the songs are about, but they certainly sound romantic to me! And the liner notes are in Spanish, so the best thing I can do is describe what’s in front of me. Maybe it would be better if I always did that—and didn’t rely on the internet—like when I’m in a cabin in the North Woods. Which, to be honest, is where I wish I was right now.

The music is up-tempo, energetic (without being jaunty), with the vocals up front. In every song he sounds like he’s trying to convince us of something—maybe just the color of the story he’s telling. He’s got a compelling voice. There are lot of words—clear as bell. The album cover features José Miguel Class (I’m assuming) in the middle of a giant, pink, heart—on-stage pose—his hands beckoning for us. A young man with good hair, what looks like a gold tooth, and one of those thin moustaches, just above his lip. (In pictures on the internet, where he’s older, the moustache gets thicker.) He’s wearing a shiny, blue, tux jacket (I used to have an identical one) and a frilly white shirt. Besides his name (in alternating yellow and green letters) it also says, “El Gallito De Manati” (the Rooster of Manati, I believe)—his nickname. Also, there’s a couple of song titles, in large italics—hard to tell what the title of the LP is. There are also nine or so deep, pink, lipstick impressions—like when a woman with lipstick kisses a flat object. The name of the label, “Neliz Records” is in red, green, orange, and purple letters. On back, above the twelve song titles, and liner notes, it says: Trofeos Otorgados A Jose Miguel Class “El Gallito De Manati”—which is also on the label, so I guess is the title. Also, the Puerto Rican address of Neliz Records, and the Bronx, NY address of “Rico Record Dist.” (I looked it up, there’s a pharmacy there.) The record label is great—I’d be tempted to steal it (style, color, font)—the bottom half is black text on hot pink, and the top half is a groovy, Sixties-hippie-style Neliz Records logo, blue letters on green. This record’s been through some rough passage, over land and water, traveled many miles, been spun a million times. But it still sounds warm and excellent.

5.3.24

The Electric Prunes “Mass in F Minor”

I felt like I had a handle on The Electric Prunes (unless I got them mixed up with the Chocolate Overcoat), but I never pegged them as Christian rockers—so what gives? So I had to resort to the ol’ ’ternet and got something like this: after the band’s first couple of records, their producer hired a classically trained composer to write this religious based concept record—but the guys in the band couldn’t play the crap—so they brought in studio musicians. That’s the crazy Sixties for you! (If they’d asked my opinion, I would have suggested, at that point, that they rename the band—The Eclectic Prunes.) I can only imagine some turmoil there, but the good thing—some version of the Prunes is still together to this day! Oh, wait, that first song, “Kyrie Eleison” is familiar—it’s in Easy Rider—I think the gross dinner scene in New Orleans, just before they get wasted at the cemetery. It’s a scene that always really creeped me out for some reason—it must have been this music! (It’s almost as creepy as the dinner at the commune, earlier, with the mean hippie.) I guess I have to credit that movie, anyway, for compelling me to give psychedelics a wide berth! (I had enough problems with the store-bought and all.) Anyway, I almost took this 1967 record off the player and flung it somewhere—within minutes—if I wanted to listen to chanting, I’d put on beads and an itchy brown robe. Which might be appropriate—after all, the name of the record kind of spells it out—and the cover shows a silver crucifix hanging from some multicolored beads, hovering over what I can only guess is an… itchy brown robe. The back cover, however, is a collage of b&w band photos, with instruments, including one with a dude playing an autoharp—and that one must have sold me. I mean, there is some fine guitar, bass, and drums here, but chanting in Latin—it makes me want to run in any other direction. And I took Latin in high school—wait… maybe that’s at the heart of my aversion. Though, I’ve gotta say, it’s kinda growing on me. (Don’t know what, exactly.) Could work as mood music—if your evening includes incense, bota bags, and shrooms.

4.26.24

Frank Sinatra “Nice ‘n’ Easy”

On the cover is a black and white photo of Frank Sinatra looking exactly like Frank Sinatra—while at the same time looking exactly like your average, young to middle-aged, middle to upper middleclass, white, clean-cut, suburban American man, reclining in an easy chair, button-up sweater, open collar, hands behind his head, comfortable smile. It occurs to me that if you didn’t know that hands behind the head pose (using the hands, fingers clasped, as a headrest) (some cultures might not know it?) —that it would be very weird indeed, as if you were holding your brains in your skull, manually. It doesn’t even say “Frank Sinatra” on the cover! You’ve got to know that face. The only words (besides the Capitol logo in the corner) is the title—in small-case, jaunty, orange and red font with an asterisk filling in for the dotted “i” dot— “nice ‘n’ easy” —a font and title that says: “this is a Doris Day romantic comedy” as clearly as if it said those words. And it very well may be, actually—wait, I have to look that up. No. No movie by that name. But it’s the look (font), for the Doris Day movies of that era. It’s also a Clairol product, same font—it’s almost by law that the phrase must be rendered in jaunty, breezy, all small-case. Someone put out an “easy listening” collection with that title. But as far as albums go, this is in some ways (if this is even possible) the most Sinatra Sinatra record—if that makes sense. Slightly over the hill, 100% confident, on the edge of doing this in his sleep. The photo on the back cover, however, shows him being busy, now at work—white shirt and loosened tie, jacket removed, standing among sheet music, sheet music in one hand—I assume he’s in the studio with the Nelson Riddle orchestra, but the background is blackened, like there are no walls—only eternity.

This record came out in 1960—the year I was born—and it may well have played me to sleep in my crib—and may be as close to defining the musical side of my brain as anything—though, I’m not entirely sure my parents had this one. But likely. Certainly, the songs, here and there, are my growing up soundtrack—including the title track, “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” “You Go to My Head,” “Fools Rush In,” “She’s Funny That Way,” and “Embraceable You”—all songs I sing in my dreams. These (as well as six others) must be among the most mellow versions of these songs that Sinatra ever recorded—slow, quiet, slightly melancholy, no fireworks, but deeply moving. Three paragraphs of uncredited liner notes sound like the writeup on one of those Jackie Gleason mood music records—and I suppose this is not so different, but with vocals—and you might put this on during a quiet dinner with cocktails—introduction to the romantic mood—that is, if you aren’t too worried about Sinatra being a disruptive presence—even at his most mellow, he kind of takes over the room. I’m not bothering to look up Sinatra’s discography to see where this fits in (because his discography takes up a half day of bandwidth) but it came just after “No One Cares” (one of my favorite barstool classics) at the end of the Fifties. Turning point? Not really—but certainly the date was—no other calendar shift seemed so epic. But it’s Sinatra’s world—and it seemed like every other record had an exclamation point in the title, interspaced with records featuring sad clown pics with tears and cocktails. Kind of weird, no exclamation point here (just that asterisk), but I heard a rumor that the zippy title track replaced “The Nearness of You” (“at the last minute”)—a song which would have fit the mood better, in my opinion. And if you think about it, Sinatra probably has released countless sets of a dozen songs that would be more aptly titled “Nice ‘n’ Easy” than this one. And this one might have been better titled “That Old Feeling” (2nd song on the record). Oh, well, another wrinkle of the ol’ Sinatra discography—which is always fun to pore over if you’ve got half a day to kill.

4.19.24

The Jam “Going Underground” / “The Dreams of Children”

Here’s an odd bit of business: I was recently going back to some of my favorite music from 40 and 50 years ago and finding that some of it doesn’t hold up for me. It’s hard to believe I liked it so much. But there’s a good side to that, too: Sometimes I can “discover” music that I once totally dismissed and despised—and hearing it now—I’m surprised to find it compelling. Not totally unrelated: Today’s random selection—two three-minute songs from The Jam on a 1980 promo 45—where’d I get it? Who knows—but since today’s fickle pointer descended on it, I’m going to do an experiment and predict my reaction before hearing it. One word: Lukewarm. For most punk bands, it was over by 1980—already planning their county fair reunion tours. Not that The Jam were a punk band, really—they were a really good pop band—but they played faster and with more energy than anyone—or were right up there. (There were some real coffee drinkers back then.) I remembered writing about—in the early days of this site—four The Jam LPs I used to have—so I went back and looked over those reviews. Interesting—I was expecting to hate them, by then, but found myself loving those records. So… weird. This single dates just after that—what will it sound like?

I wish I could say I was wrong, but both songs sound about like I expected—like The Jam—high energy pop songs with good jangly guitar and expressive bass—lyrics-wise what we used to call “political” songs—about social issues, etc., which is nice. But music-wise, I’m not feeling it. I don’t particularly like “Going Underground,” and I don’t think it’s gonna grow on me. There’s way too much happening, structurally, musically—it could have ended in several places before it did. They managed to make three minutes feel like 30. Too much going on for a pop song—or, really, for a mini-series. “The Dreams of Children” is more interesting, at least on first listen. But it grows old fast—again, overly complicated for what it is. Both of these songs could benefit by being, each, half as long. Oh well, now it seems a little ironic that the last The Jam record I own is this one—that I don’t even like—and I wish I had those first four LPs that I lost. Some advice to the kids—try to hang onto your old records for as long as you can (or whatever equivalent objects of importance from your younger days might be). There may come a time when you’re glad to dust them off and rediscover them.

4.12.24

Paul Horn “Dream Machine”

One nice thing about checking out a new (well, 1978) record is the excuse to go back and listen to others by that artist—in this case, the excellent “Visions” from 1974—and seeing if that short span of years is as catastrophic here as for many recording artists. Certainly, you wouldn’t connect the two album covers—from hippie drawing (that one) to this one’s larger-than-life, full headshot, which looks like the promotional poster for a motivational speaker. Nice. Recorded a week after my 18th birthday—not a record I would have bought my first year of college (when I budgeted one LP per week)—so it’s just had to wait for me somewhere for 46 years—ha! The next thing that catches your eye (back cover credits) (besides a list of excellent musicians) is Lalo Schifrin (“Composed, Arranged & Conducted by”)-—so this is kind of also a Lalo Schifrin record. But it’s first of all a Paul Horn record—it’s a flute record—flute from start to finish. I like it. All the musicians are good—what stands out to me most (besides flute) is some of the bass playing. Credited is Abraham Laboriel. As with flute, I’m no great judge of bass playing, but I know what I like, and some of these lines make me stop and wonder if I’ve left something burning on the stove.

As for the songs, I most associate Lalo Schifrin with some great movie scores—so will this be one of those records I’m best able to relate to by envisioning movie scenes? Why not. Six instrumentals that may as well be named anything, so maybe. The first one, though excellent, doesn’t take me anywhere, specifically, so I’m going to engage my imagination more. Next one, I’m seeing a slightly futuristic world and we’re following some kind of cop (naturally) through his daily rituals. This is the future where the cars got much cooler (as opposed to the one we’re living in) and 1970’s fashions (including moustaches) stuck around. Next song is a deal going down. Side Two starts with a kind of split-personality song that alternates from “too cool to even be bothered” to TV show about a well-adjusted high school teacher who only helps kids get the highest SAT scores possible and has no dark side. And then… a song called, “Quite Early One Morning,” which is, as you’d expect, quiet, meditative—one of those mornings more focused on beauty, mortality, and the meaning of life than, say, coffee. But, as coffee is as inevitable as death, we progress into the day with a sad coolness. Finally, then, “The Juggler” is a bit clownish—and since I find a happy clown unbearable, I’m imposing my own sense of irony on the proceedings and choosing to imagine a protagonist who juggles love affairs, bank accounts, and wellbeing—with disaster. The End.

4.5.24

Carly Simon “Hotcakes”

I’ll buy anything (record, book, movie) called “Hotcakes,” or “Pancakes,” or “Donuts,” or “Homefries,” for that matter—anything that you drink coffee with, and might be consumed for breakfast, or at a diner or lunch counter. If “Hotcakes” somehow refers to sex, however, I’m not as interested. I don’t know why it would, necessarily, but if you push anything far enough, it ends up on sex, eventually. Of course, the title of this record might have just meant that it was intended to sell a buttload of units. That doesn’t sound good, but I’ll edit that out—I’m trying to type as fast as the songs are going by. I’m really liking the sound of this record—but that doesn’t surprise me, seeing how it’s from my favorite year for pop music, 1974. Great musicians, fine production, good sound. The album cover makes me wonder. Carly Simon is wearing a very cottony or linen-looking white dress, sitting on a wooden chair painted white, in a room painted white, resting on a table (painted white) that’s built onto the wall, under a window with a white curtain. There’s a tiny bit of silver hardware. The window is closed, but the glass is covered over with, you guessed it, white. What does it mean? The back cover is a close-up, CS is contemplative, barely smiling (no teeth), looking off, holding what looks like rosary beads or a long necklace, part of which are white elephants… I think. Could be anteaters. If they’re elephants, I kind of hope they aren’t made of ivory. The cover opens up to reveal a striking two-foot-tall photograph of Carly Simon kind of dancing for the camera, hands outstretched, posing by the side of a mountain road. She’s, again, smiling, wearing a hippie dress, faded denim smock, wide brimmed hat, clogs, and red knee socks. My 14-year-old self could have hung this on my bedroom wall like a poster, and why not.

I made pancakes this morning—hadn’t made any in a while—and now I realized I might have been anticipating writing something about this record. Or else—the breakfast led to this, I’m not sure—but I like when things work that way. Most of the songs are written or cowritten by Carly Simon. “Forever My Love” is one of my favorites—it’s cowritten by James Taylor, who plays on, I think, every song. I believe they were married at this time. The one cover song is “Mockingbird” —you know that one—which they do as a duet—it’s a hot version—and some big names playing on that one. There’s an overall feeling of happiness to these songs, and this record in general. I don’t mind that so much—someone’s got to stay positive for the rest of us. Also, when the general mood is well-adjusted, positive, even happy—it gives added weight to the inevitable melancholy moments. One wonders if a song called, “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain” addresses this idea. Of course it does—and it could, as well, in my opinion, sell as much catsup as “Anticipation” (1971). There is a song called “Hotcakes,” by the way, but it’s only a minute long, sounds a little odd since its down there with the tight grooves—but it’s a rap song, with horns, about hotcakes. “Safe and Sound” is another good one. “Mind On My Man” kind of makes me jealous. As does “Think I’m Gonna Have a Baby.” I mean, my 14-year-old self with the two-foot-high poster on my bedroom wall. And finally, I’m fascinated with “Just Not True,” though I can’t figure out what it’s saying, exactly—but I like it for that—as well as that it won’t sell ketchup or set up James Bond—but I like it all the more for that.

3.29.24

Ray Pillow “The Waitress” / “She Knows What Love Can Do”

A promo 45 on Mega Records from 1973. (On the Mega label, above the name, there’s a little graphic that I’m inclined to file as: “I have no idea what that is.” A window AC unit? But how would that make any sense? A robot? Hell if I know!) Anyway, a popular Nashville country & western singer, Ray Pillow (his real name!) passed away just a year ago. I nabbed this record sometime before that, knowing only that Ray Pillow is a great handle, and a song called “The Waitress” has got to be a classic—and hopefully includes coffee. Both of these songs might be on LPs— “The Waitress” is on his 1972 album, “Slippin’ Around with Ray Pillow.” (That is a great title.) “The Waitress” is an excellent song, corny as it is, with some really difficult rhymes (I mean, difficult in terms of degree of difficulty—but RP gives it go). And also, downhome wisdom—“She learned to be a waitress by sittin’ home waitin’ on me.” It’s an epic to be certain, and in 2:21, mind you. I mean, this song travels from Texas to Tennessee—and all the states in between, including the state of grace that can only be known by that angel known as… the waitress. That’s not an actual line from the song, but you get the idea. One can easily find both the lyrics and the song on internet—but I’ve just got to quote this one: “And her coffee tastes better ’cause she serves it with that married woman style.” Amazing. “She Knows What Love Can Do” is the slower one, a sad song, also about a woman who has been on the crap side of romance and love—but is he blaming “love” exactly? (See: title of this song, which is also the last line of the chorus.) Or her “lover,” essentially? Hard to tell—this song gets in and out in about 2:27—fastest I’ve ever been confused. But it’s a beautiful song, and that’s all that matters.

3.22.24

Vern Gosdin “Never My Love”

Since I’m obsessed with the Addrisi Brothers song, “Never My Love,” I’ll pick up any record with that song, including by the Addrisi Brothers (twice)—and including this one—the album is even named after it. So, I guess you could say the song sold me this record (I mean, not a lot of cabbage changed hands)—rather than the star—that’s often the way it works, with me, with older records. I look at the songs, and songwriters, and then maybe I discover some singer I never knew about. It turns out that Vern Gosdin is a big name in Nashville—he was known as country music’s “The Voice” (I’m trusting the close-internet, here) which would kind of make him like a parallel of Sinatra, at least nickname-wise. (His eyes, on the cover photo, do appear blue, but who knows.) It’s often said that Sinatra has no peer, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a parallel. Well, Vern Gosdin does have an excellent, deep, country music singing voice. Lots and lots of singles, including some Country Number Ones—mostly in the Seventies and Eighties. This LP is from 1978, the year I graduated from high school—definitely before I because a country music fan. It’s a fine version of “Never My Love”—and there’s some other very good songs, like “When I Need You,” and, “I Sure Can Love You” (all of Side One is excellent). Also, “Forget Yesterday,” and “Something’s Wrong in California” (it’s hard to go wrong with a title like that).

A subtly weird album cover. You might not even notice it (as being weird, or at all)—it’s dark, earth-tone, brown—Vern Gosdin looks like he’s lit by a yellowing streetlamp. It looks like he’s peeking out of a doorway, wearing a dark suit and a loud shirt with an enormous collar—or maybe two jackets, one with a massive lapel. The weird thing is, the “doorway” (if that’s what it is) is slanted, like on a 70-degree (estimate, I don’t have a protractor) angle. So, it’s like he’s in an Indiana Jones set, or a Batman villain’s hideout. The back cover—same photo, but he’s looking off to the left, as if at someone making a comment. (Like, “…or are you just happy to see me?”) Or else, meant to show off his profile—highlighting his sideburn and schnoz. And the subtly oddest thing—barely in the shadows, below, it looks like his hand’s in his pocket (you can make out some loud sleeve)… but a thumb is protruding—which looks an awful lot like he’s doing that old gag where you put your hand down your pants and stick a finger out the open zipper in order to resemble… you know. I’m not saying he’s doing this—and it would be very weird (though kind of brilliant) if he was—but other record buyers, other than myself, over the years, must have made this same observation, over the years. This oddity alone (and a nice, listening record) makes me a new fan of Vern Gosdin.

3.15.24

Terry Gibbs “Vibes on Velvet”

Nothing starts out much smoother than this record—I guess it’s a five saxophone, ten (or so) piece orchestra—the beginning of “Autumn Nocturne”—and then the vibraphone comes in, and it goes even smoother, if that’s even possible. I guess I’m kind of partial to vibes—standards with orchestra and vibes—the kind of late Fifties early Sixties cocktail den jazz—because that’s (as I said before) what I listened to in my crib (baby crib, not bachelor pad). I suppose when they named the record “Vibes on Velvet,” smoothness was what they had in mind. There are extensive liner notes covering half the back album cover, if you’re interested in some serious biographical information. Also, a bit of selling—of this record, that is. It’s charming to imagine a time when a person might pick up an LP in a record store, and that small, serious, print would function as a selling tactic. Imagine! The cover is a closeup of a vibraphone, and some mallets—it’s pleasant, but not spectacular like the other Terry Gibbs record I have—it looks like a jazz album from the year it came out, 1956. Terry Gibbs released a ton of records—I’m not even going to count what the internet lists—but this was part of his first half-dozen. It’s an early one. And he’s still around! He’ll be 100 in October! Some of my very favorite standards are here, including “Mood Indigo,” “It Might as Well Be Spring,” and one of my major obsessions, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Really good versions, too. Plus, others I don’t know like the back of my hand, but still sound like remembering dreams. There are three Terry Gibbs originals—that are great, as well, and sound pretty familiar to me, too—maybe because I’ve played this record more times than I realize. I’d play it even more if I had a rec-room, with cocktails and mellow lighting, and I was entertaining dates with romantic intentions.

3.8.24

Stan Kenton & His Orchestra “7.5 on the Richter Scale”

This cornball Stan Kenton cartoon-album-cover cheapo masterpiece starts off with what sounds like a college marching band version of “Live and Let Die” (which every marching band in the country did, you recall, after that movie came out—despite the not very positive message of the lyrics). Still, I like it, as well as the ridiculous version of “Body and Soul” that sets me right in a movie set in Las Vegas. It’s all movie music, actually—the liner notes refer to “now” music (bordering on rock) (thus, the “earth shaking” reference). The datedness comes across as (to me) charming. “Down and Dirty” is a detective movie theme with a great bass part on top of which horn ridiculousness makes okay sense. If you can hear “Country Cousin” (a Gene Roland composition) without seeing 1973 mustachioed Burt Reynolds in tight pants, you’re too old (or too young). Their take on the Strauss (Zarathustra) is a weird one—as is, I suppose, every take on that oddball theme—it would be fun to rank them. All in all, this LP goes with my party records (as intended, I’m guessing)—I only wish I had a dedicated “Rec-Room” with a wet bar (whatever that is), a psychedelic mural, and blacklights. Hopefully the party would last much longer than the duration of this record, but “It’s Not Easy Bein’ Green” sounds like the mellowed to exhaustion climax, when people put their arms around each other and it seems okay (at least at the time). What to make of, then, that jaunty “Godfather” theme? Maybe it’s just a sequencing problem. Or maybe I’m wrong about the party. “Blue Gene” (another Gene Roland) is another movie, this time with that weirdo James Coburn. How does that guy seem to keep getting weirder, over time?

3.1.24

Gino Vannelli “The Gist of the Gemini”

Astute (or slightly insane) readers of the DJ Farraginous “blog” may recall an interesting mention of Gino Vannelli. Back in school, my friend Scott Suter was my hero after he turned me on to Mott the Hoople (first I’d heard of that band), so when he recommended this record, I rushed out and bought it… and I was… disillusioned. Oh, well, maybe I wasn’t ready for it, as a 16-year-old—and ol’ SS was simply more sophisticated. It sounds much better to me now—though, perhaps, barely. I love songs about the year at hand—generally—the one here, however— “A New Fix For ’76”—is the low point of Side One. But the ballads—which I certainly would have dismissed as a rambunctious lad—appeal to me, now, in my mellow years. The internet helps—briefly, GV is originally from Montreal, is relatively young, and is still out their touring—that makes me happy. You could reach GV, back then, via a New Orleans P.O. box (listed below the credits)—maybe you still can. The album cover is kind of incredible—glossy black with glowing white piano keys, and backlit GV and his giant hair. The inside gets even more lycanthropic—bandmembers’ disembodied heads, each seeming to have been radiated with some kind of follicle fertilizer. You kinda gotta see it. Side Two consists of a composition called: “WAR SUITE: Prelude to The War, The Battle Cry, To The War, Carnal Question, After the Last Battle, To The War (Reflection), Summers of My Life.” And they fit it all in. The limitations (in length) of the vinyl era (as opposed to the CD era) were often an undeniable strength. That last number, “Summers…” is technically credited as part of WAR SUITE—but it’s definitely a departure—quite welcome—and it’s my mellow favorite of the record.

2.29.24

Canyon Spells “Now That We’re Gone”

Where did I get this record? I’m guessing it strolled in while I was sleeping, like my dreams of imaginary cities. I never heard of this band, and the cover (close-up of a male-model-looking astronaut likely floating in space, looking back at Earth—a poetic visual representation of the title) most likely didn’t compel me to fork out record store dollars. I’m not even crazy about owning contemporary (2016) vinyl—on the shelf, it takes up twice the space as old records, and when moving-time comes, that mega-gram stuff adds up. If anyone wants this, and would like to stop by, it’s yours. I figured it would be one of those records I’d listen to once and write something amusing about (it’s a lot easier to be funny when you’re writing a negative review), but alas, I like the record—I like the production, and the playing, and the singing, and in particular, I really like some of the catchy, even intriguing, pop songs. They remind me of someone/something, but I can’t put my finger on it—not surprising, in that I’m pretty ignorant of the last quarter-century-plus of “indie” music. On the other hand, the music is about fifty-percent someone else’s cup of tea. There’s a website with slightly less info than the minimalist album cover—it opens up, revealing the most basic credits on one side, and on the other side, under what looks like a full solar eclipse, a poem. Or it could lyrics, which, by the way, I can understand as sung—but nothing reaches out and grabs me (which is fine, even good)—and I’m too lazy to dwell on them. That brings me around to the name of the band. What does it mean? I’m not going to make a dumb guess because it might be a fairly obvious literary allusion I’m not getting. Or it might simply be two rather good words that, when placed one after another, it’s safe to assume have not been used anytime recently to describe French fries, sell SUVs, on a fascism promoting hat, or as a fucking online game.

2.28.24

Brenda Russell “Get Here”

When the opportunity presents itself (cheap vinyl) I’ll buy records by anyone named “Randy” (my first name)—or with the same last name as mine. Over the years, this has proved a fine strategy (Randy Newman, Leon Russell, Randy Lee, Randy California, etc. [though… the jury’s still out on Bobby Russell])—though, sometimes, and occasionally, not. But it’s always worth a try. I heard about Brenda Russell way back, at some point—she’s got a long career—here and there—but never heard any of her records. So I picked this one up when I saw a super-clean copy. It kind of confused me—the cover art—a photo of Brenda Russell, treated to look like a painting—on a clean, white background—looks totally contemporary. Yet the record is from 1988—which is eons ago. Yet… I don’t normally buy records that are this “new.” Confused yet? Well, time is relative. I like movies from the Seventies—but for children’s books, that’s way too new—Thirties and Forties, I like much better. With records, 1972 through 1974 is the three-year period I’m drawn to. With tacos, I find them best if they are only a few minutes old.

I guess this music is considered pop, but also R&B—but those categories aren’t really that helpful. The overall sound strikes me as pretty much an Eighties style of production (which would make sense), but not as flagrantly so as most rock music from this era—it’s more timeless sounding. Faster songs and slower songs—I prefer the slower ones, like “Piano in the Dark”—which has a really catchy chorus—and has an emotional quality—the word “emotion” in the lyrics—and, as you might expect, a very cool solo piano part to conclude it. (According to inner sleeve notes, played by Russell Ferrante). “Le Restaurant” (I’m a sucker for dining establishment themes) is nice—I guess I just like slower songs—which wasn’t the case when I was younger. Something occurred to me—something I also thought about while listening to this last time I listened to it—the song, “Midnight Eyes” (a bouncy one) made me think of that band, Was (Not Was)—a record by them I had way back, “What Up Dog?”—so I looked that up—1988. So that’s interesting. Though… not so much the chorus of that song. A couple of her choruses make me think of James Bond theme songs—you know, the ones from the Eighties and Nineties, I guess—which are often instances when I’m suspectable to a mainstream sound—they’re usually catchy. The title song, here, is good—I like it—another slower, more soulful one. I’m not crazy about this record, but it’s okay. I can keep it around for when I’m in the mood for this kind of thing (which happens more and more often, these days).

2.27.24

Frank Sinatra “The Voice” EP

How many records start out with the words: “A cigarette…” Well, probably far too many—or maybe just this one. I have (and may have written about) the LP version of this record (both from 1955)—which probably has twelve songs, while this has four. The funny thing is, they have the exact same photo—a portrait of young Frank Sinatra, smiling, with a pool-table-green background—it’s just that this one is a “closeup” of his face—on cardboard scaled down to seven inches. The four songs here are: “These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You),” “Laura,” “She’s Funny That Way,” and “Fools Rush In.” Those are four of the best. These are older recordings… I’m not sure how many times Sinatra recorded each of these songs, but this quiet, ballad style of his older recordings—with minimal orchestra—well, it’s there, but voice in the foreground—I really like. If this was the only Sinatra record I owned—well, that’d be very sad—but I’d really have the essence of this era Sinatra. These are four seriously romantic, melancholy, mellow, sad songs. Is there anything in contemporary pop music this quiet and beautiful? Well, I’m sure there is—I just don’t know contemporary pop music. The only thing that comes to mind, for me, is Lana Del Rey.

One odd and funny extraneous detail here: the random song review selector picked two four-song EPs in a row—this one, and previously, the Iron Oxide record. So, similar format—very different approach to sonic output—but I like them both a lot. The really weird thing is, this record is also pressed on coffee-colored vinyl! I’m just kidding. It’s black (licorice-colored vinyl)—ho hum. But I almost thought it was for a second, because the label is that that older, red Columbia label—it’s a dark red, I think it’s carmine—almost maroon—which I like much better (including the lettering and style) than that red Columbia label (I think of it as contemporary—but I guess it’s the one from the Seventies). I’m always picking on the Columbia label—I don’t know why. Ubiquitous and boring? I’m sure I’d change my tune if I was signed to Columbia—don’t things always work that way? That nightmarish four-wheeled contraption, spewing toxic clouds and green fluid—once you get the keys—goes from hideous beast to love of your life.

2.25.24