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

Keith Jarrett “Mysteries”

When I was in my teens (1970s), I was open to a lot of music and just trying to find more stuff that I liked. One LP a week, that was the rule for a while (well, after I got a job). I must have read about Keith Jarrett in Rolling Stone magazine, and I bought the record The Survivors’ Suite when that came out in 1977. I remember liking it, but not totally connecting to it, so I didn’t buy more Keith Jarrett at that time. I wondered if I had written something about it, so I looked back through the blog (DJ Farraginous—it’s searchable!) and I did! Almost on this day (late July) of 2007—which is back when I still had a lot of my teenage-years records. What I wrote is kind of dumb, so don’t bother, and it uses coarse language—but it’s nice to think about still being at it—writing about records, that is (as well as still being dumb). This kind of musing lets me avoid trying to write about this music specifically, which I’m struggling with, because I don’t know enough about jazz to say whether this LP is good or bad, accomplished or how it fails. I know that it can just be opinion, and I know that I do like it, so that’s as far as I get. I like it a lot—and after having listened to (or re-listened to) this record (which mysteriously found its way into my collection only recently, though it came out in 1976), I was enthused—and told myself to maybe go out and buy more Keith Jarrett records—buy one anytime I saw one! (The not too, too expensive ones, that is.)

“Mysteries” is a good title—I like it—I would say because he’s a mysterious guy—but he’s probably not—just mysterious to me. It’s always mysterious why my document will suddenly increase font size to double what it was—right while I’m typing! There is nothing here in this office where I’m working (apartment) in evidence so much as mysteries (books). I could speculate that Keith Jarrett very well may have been inspired by Knut Hamsun’s novel, Mysteries (1892), which is one I’m kind of obsessed with and going to re-read soon! The album cover image, a snapshot-size photo of some tress, encouraged me to think that. It’s a very cool photo—credited to Keith Jarrett. Four compositions, all by K.J., and all very different from each other. Quite a combo here, credited: Dewey Redman, Charlie Haden, Paul Motian, Guilhermo Franco (the one I’m not familiar with, on percussion). Keith Jarrett plays “Pakistani flute,” as well as piano. He sometimes weirdly hums along with his piano playing—which I find charming—and arguably (a condition, a byproduct, an unintentional enhancement?) adds to the music. I’m not going to play the game of relating how each song makes me feel while listening to it—I’ll spare the lesser world of that nonsense. Instead, I’m going to listen to it as a whole—and I’m going to put this record on from time to time. And when I find another Keith Jarrett record, sometime, I’ll compare them.

8.2.24

Bob Beckham “Your Sweet Love” / “Just as Much as Ever”

A couple of corny country ballads on the Decca label, vocal with chorus and orchestra. I’d never heard of Bob Beckham (yet there’s the 45, in my collection, next to Bob D) but I read a bit of interesting bio on the ’rnet about how he switched careers from singer to music publisher and apparently was quite helpful to many younger songwriters. I like this one okay, at least for corny country love songs, and his singing is fine—he’s really going for it—but a timeless style it is not. Pretty songs, lyrics are fairly standard, mundane, but I’m going to focus on their meaning regardless. “If I were a king and could have everything my greatest pleasure would be Your Sweet Love.” Yes, it’s one of those expressions of “love” where love means sex. I mean, why not just put a massive partially peeled banana on the cover and name the record “Bend it like Beckham!” Claiming “the treasure” (of your sweet love) means having had sex with. You can wrap it up in sugarcoated Bible verses, and people do, but it still comes down to “getting busy.” Does taking care of business mean sex? Would Randy Bachman and E. give you the same answer? Sorry about all the questions. Flip it over. “Just as Much as Ever—I need you… and want you to be near… even though we two are parted.” Uh, oh. A once-couple that something happened to, and now they’re a former couple. This is a sad one. Will his pleading get him anywhere? The song thinks so, but I’m sorry, I don’t. I’m just being a realist, and not a romantic, I guess. But when I hear “For I am still the same old me with the same old love for you”—I think, yeah, but did you do anything about those anger issues?

7.26.24

Paul Smith Trio “This One Cooks!”

The album cover looks like it was put out by the brother-in-law of your local Armada Room weekender, sold a few dozen of the minimum print run out of the trunk of his Buick. I don’t mean that as a put-down, I think it’s awesome—I love the black on deep red two-tone cover and the simple, everything-out-of-proportion cartoon drawing of Paul Smith at a piano from which musical notes rise engulfed in flame. “The One Cooks!” is a great title. It’s hard to date it from the look—though it’s in mint condition—but the back definitely has the feel of a late 50s/early 60s product—bare bones, with credits, the “Outstanding Records” logo and address, some extensive, old-fashioned liner notes (“if you’ve got an afternoon free” length) by Earl Beecher, and tiny b&w ads of other Paul Smith releases. The odd thing is there’s a black band across the top advertising it as a “Digital Recording”—what’s that all about? Maybe this is a re-release. Well, the date on the black-on-red “Outstanding” label is 1981—downright contemporary—almost CD era! And Beecher mentions that it’s Outstanding’s first digital recording. Eight songs, all standards, including one of my favorites, “Laura.” Also, the song that seems like it’s on every other record I write about, “Autumn Leaves”—and a very fine version here indeed.

Somehow, I’d never heard of Paul Smith before, but then, my ignorance knows no bounds. Also, I might have had him confused with another Paul and/or another Smith—I mean, what a name—there must be at least a dozen Paul Smiths out there! So, I read about him a bit on the ol’ ’nternet. A Californian, lifetime pianist, lots of bands, lots of records, lots of studio work with an impressive array of big names. A dozen records with Ella Fitzgerald. Solo and trio records on a lot of different labels. This has got to be a later one. The trio also consists of Wilfred Middlebrooks, bass, and Frankie Capp, drums. It’s a lot of fun (the cheesy cartoon drawing cover and title fits it perfectly). It’s high energy, coked-up (can I use that term while in no way implying that members of the band are under the influence of that heinous drug, or any others? I’m going to allow it, here—good thing I’m my own editor!) high-energy, did I say that already? Full of asides, and winks and nods, knowing smiles, lots of fun. A little showoff-y at times, but that’s what you’re here for Paul Smith for, right? It does cook, too. Someone could tell me he’s a Diet Coke drinker, but I wouldn’t believe it—sounds a lot like a whole pot of coffee to me.

7.12.24

Peters & Lee “We Can Make It”

I bought this record without hesitation based on the cover (having missed out on their music in my youth) which is a very weird set up portrait of the duo, dressed in earthy purple with cold grey accents, sitting in centuries-old museum chairs, holding hands. You can almost see through their pale skin, blue veins—as if never touched by the sun. If Jim Jarmusch hadn’t had this photo in mind when he made Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), he should have. It’s a crazy looking album cover, but I imagine all in good fun, based on their warm smiles. And, also, the liner notes—by producer of British TV talent show, Opportunity Knocks—Royston Mayoh—who confirms this. Says he was worried (for some reason) about working with a blind person (Peters), but apparently the singers, Lennie Peters and Dianne Lee, put everyone at ease and did a great show—which was followed by several more shows, and which led to record contract, a hit single, “Welcome Home,” and a hit 1973 album (this one), and several more records throughout the Seventies. I’ve also got to mention the aggressive pink and yellow font on the cover—that kind of lettering that is supposed to look like it’s jumping off the surface in 3-D. It could hold the world’s record for “loudness.” I looked them up—Dianne Lee is still with us, just 10 years older than me. Lennie Peters (who died from cancer at a young age) was not blind from birth—he lost sight in one eye in an auto accident as a child, and then the other eye at the age of 16 when hit by a thrown brick. That’s a full portion of bad breaks.

I love this record—it’s the kind of energetic pop music that sounds totally dated in the best way. I guess that’s another way to say nostalgic. It starts off with a good one, “All Change Places”—I don’t know who else did that song—so I’ll be content to keep it here. Twelve short songs written by other people, backed by excellent, uncredited studio musicians. “Take to the Mountains” is another standout—I guess a previous UK hit I never knew about. I tried looking up the catchy title song—but trying to find anything about it got tedious—so many songs by that title! This one has a spiritual element (and makes a particularly good duet—Dianne Peters’ vocal is strange and beautiful). I’m guessing all the other songs with that same title are about sex—and that’s why there’s so many!

Side Two is like a cover-song tour de force, starting with the classic, “Let It Be Me,” (Everly Brothers, and a ton of others), and another Everlys, “Cryin’ in the Rain.” Blue Mink’s jaunty “Good Morning Freedom,” then, followed by Buck Owens’ “Cryin’ Time,” for a country repast. Then my favorite on the record, the Addrisi Brothers’ “Never My Love,” which is maybe my favorite pop song ever—like I said, not long ago, I’m kind of obsessed with that song—can’t get over it. I collect versions of it. Here’s another one! Finally, their hit, “Welcome Home”—apparently originally a French song, like “Let It Be Me.” I’m not nutty about it, but I do love their version of “Never My Love,” which I’m listening to again. It’s funny—there are three songs just on this side that I’ve tried to learn to play, and sing, myself—I’d have done it, too, if I knew more than three chords on guitar.

7.5.24

Laura Nyro “The First Songs…”

“The First Songs…” is a 1973 re-release of Laura Nyro’s first album, “More Than a New Discovery” from 1967—exact same songs, I believe, just different sequence. I bought two copies, thinking I was buying both versions, but instead I got both the Columbia and Verve version of the re-release (wildly different covers, though neither of them worth dwelling on). For that matter, both album titles aren’t great—when I get the time machine running, I’ll go back and suggest they title it: “Stoney End”—it’s the best song on the record—and it would be a funny title for an artist’s first LP. The first song on the re-release version is “Wedding Bell Blues”—since that was the big hit. I went for a half-century or so thinking that song was called “Phil.” It was the pervasive morning AM radio hit accompanying my Cap’n Crunch for a year or two of grade school. It’s the one that goes, “Bill, I love you so, I always will…” (I thought it was Phil.) The next song is “Billy’s Blues.” Interesting. There’s also Joe (“Good-bye”), Susan (“Lazy), John and Cindy, etc.—she knew a lot of people, as young people do. Some pretty good lyrics.

I hate to bring this up, but one thing here that distracts me (besides some occasional jauntiness) is that style of harmonica I associate with the mainstream AM radio hits of the time—it just bugs me—and I don’t mean to keep picking on the harmonica—a fine instrument, sometimes. I don’t really hate the instrument, and in some blues music, it’s like evidence of God. Maybe it’s because I, myself, abused the thing, which is easy to do—it has no defense against the amateur. If you look hard enough (please don’t) you can find a YouTube video of me murdering (not even the way Bob Dylan does) the poor thing (though the band I was playing was excellent). (And it’s an interesting side-note that someone smashed in the window of my parked car during that performance!) You can try to punk rock a harmonica, but the harmonica will always harmonica the punk rock. But I’m getting sidetracked—in this case, throughout the record, it’s a different issue—the harmonica is perfectly played and used in moderation to flavor the songs—but for me, it’s never subtle. Maybe I’m the only one who feels this way, but I can’t help but hear it as a watering down—rather than an enhancing. It’s like middle-of-the-road, middle of America, AM morning radio lube. Spooning sugar on your Cap’n Crunch. Or scrambled eggs. Macaroni and Velveeta. It’s like a Martini on the rocks, too much melting ice diluting the gin. Or even, for me, cumin—nothing wrong with it in itself, but in the wrong proportions, it goes all bad-hippie, like too much love on the surface, ultimately unable to make up for a twisted, cut-off heart.

Or, bad metaphors, bad writing. Because I’m not saying the heart of the songs are bad—anything but. Maybe unusual and a little weird (which is part of what’s great about them!)—but making them palpable with harmonica feels, to me, like a disservice. Maybe I should let it go. But it’s not always harmonica, sometimes it’s harmonium, or it could be saxophone, or flugelhorn, or trumpet, or fiddle, or mandolin, or cello. (I mean, in general, these aren’t all on this record!) And sometimes, well, very often, guitar. Though very seldom, I don’t think, sung harmonies—which is interesting. This is all my inexpert opinion, of course, and no one has to agree with me (no one does, completely). It’s just that for me to really love music, which I do, it seems that I have be honest about really hating some other music, or some elements of some music that I hate. I really don’t even like using the word hate—but I just did—and it’s weird how, as I type this, the words keep shrinking on the page, or keep getting further and further away. Maybe it’s coffee time.

Some of the songs here I can do without, but in the context of the 12-song album, they’re okay, since there are more really strong ones—I’ll play the record happily, but just zone out on a few. All pop records are uneven, to an extent, it’s just that some are more uneven than others. And you never know when it might not be the song, but you, and the song’s just waiting for you to come around to it. Generally, I like the slower, quieter songs more, and the more upbeat and jaunty songs less. Have I said that exact same thing about other records? Yes I have. What have you got, you ask, against jaunty songs? Well, occasionally I like them—and there’s a good example here: “Stoney End”—which is a song that it took me a long time to come around to, for some reason, but when I did, it was like falling in love. I never say this, but it’s a masterpiece. It really is. It just occurred to me, listening to this song—could we use that time machine to get Laura Nyro, Donald Fagen, and Walter Becker to get together and go off somewhere together for the entire decade of the Eighties, help each other out, collaborate, write songs and record them—and redefine the decade? They’re all roughly the same age, have jazz, pop, and r&b influences, are from the NYC area, and have unique musical perspectives. I bet people speculate this all the time—oh, well, I’m not trying to be original or anything. Just daydreaming. Well, right now, I’m listening to “Stoney End” yet again. It really is the perfect song. It even made me cry… I have to admit… not because it’s no devastating or anything, but because it’s so beautiful.

6.28.24

The Detergents “Leader of the Laundromat” / “Ulcers”

Missed out on this parody of the Shangri-Las “Leader of the Pack” when it might have played on the kitchen radio (WLEC Sandusky) or on a variety show on the B&W TV with the roundish screen—it was 1964, so I suppose I was more focused on which dog stole my stuffed chipmunk. Though I probably would have “got it” had I heard it—and if not, my mom would have spelled it out. I don’t generally care for comedy records, especially ones that depend on knowing the immediate cultural reference—“Leader of the Pack” was already kind of a novelty record, but it’s cool, and it’s endured. I’m guessing I picked this up off of whatever junk heap it had landed in because the Roulette label catches your eye—and then, never having heard of it, I momentarily imagined “Leader of the Laundromat” could be something weird. Laundromats are in themselves kind of odd and funny, and like breakfast and outhouses, seldom the subject of pop songs—so it gets my attention when they are. The Detergents sounds like the punk band that wasn’t (or, probably was, somewhere). Well, sadly, it isn’t (weird, that is), but instead, over-extended comedy, and they’re trying hard, really hard, really really hard. But it plays, even though it looks like someone spilled a Coke or battery acid on it. Oddly, the former owner crossed out, with a pen, every single bit of text on the B-side, “Ulcers.” Possibly they were suffering from them—or who knows. The song is an un-original rock-n-roll instrumental with a nice guitar sound and honky-tonked to death piano—it sounds exactly like a short, B-side, instrumental called “Ulcers” would sound (in a fictional world) (which, I suppose, is not really any different than “reality”).

6.21.24

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