The Gaylords “Tell Me You’re Mine” / “Aye Aye Aye”

The last of The Gaylords records I have—I found three in a box, somewhere, awhile back—a gift from this popular vocal trio. Everything’s in threes. The B-side, “Aye Aye Aye,” is pretty interesting because it turns on a dime halfway through—completely different tempo and rhythm, even—it goes from a bouncy “Aye Aye Aye”—with vibes, to a swinging version, with jazzy piano—and then kind of blends the two. At least I think that’s what it’s doing—it’s very complex, genius, musically. The A-side, “Tell me You’re Mine,” is a lovely romantic ballad, which also turns on dime halfway through and goes from one singer to several, and switches from English to Italian. Very nice. And then it doubles back to a dramatic finale. It’s a great song—this was their biggest hit and eventually sold a million copies, you know, give or take a few—how is that even figured? That’s a massive hit, for that time, 1952, and without the help of social media. They were from Detroit. These records were a nice surprise, I mean finding them, and checking them out. They put out tons of singles, and a few albums as well. I’ll keep an eye out for the LPs—I never see them, and you’d think, in Milwaukee, you might. I’m guessing the old-timers hold on to them. A few have Italian themes, like “That’s Amore.” The one I’m really looking out for is “Let’s Have a Pizza Party”—great cover, classic theme, and as they say, you can’t go wrong with pizza.

2.26.26

China Crisis “Working with Fire and Steel – Possible Pop Songs Volume Two”

1983 was the year that I was in probably the best band I’ve ever played in—so, my peak, you could say, as far as that kind of thing—playing music with a band. Not so much because of my ability, but because of the collaborators, the band, the Ragged Bags—a brief high point for me. So you might think when I see a record with that date on it, it would give me positive anticipation, or a warm feeling of some kind. But no. When I see that date on a record that I don’t know, it fills me with dread. It was, for me, not a great time for album buying (even though there must be some great music from this year—but I can’t recall what, offhand). Anyway, this record feels typical of my memory of that time—it’s synthpop, and very synth-y and very pop-y. I have to admit, I like this music a lot more now than a would have in 1983. I’ve gotten soft, maybe, but also, I enjoy something that’s done well, even if it’s not my bag of tea. I also appreciate nice melodies more now than when I was younger (when I was more in favor of screaming and noise, which bugs me now). So, sure, I can listen to this record. Nothing really bad about it. It’s just not likely to blow my mind or anything. The band was from England, and this record is an import—it’s got that flimsy, glossy cover—nice art, some photos of nuclear power plants. The title fairly screams “art.” I know nothing about this band—though the inner sleeve has far too much information—so much, I’m ignoring it. The internet reveals that they are still together, still a band, so who knows, they could be playing in Milwaukee tonight. Some lineup changes over the years, naturally, but the weirdest bit I discovered is that Walter Becker was briefly a member, in 1985. I did not know that. That’s kind of exciting. That warrants an additional listening. My impression of the record is exactly the same.

2.25.26

Steve Goodman “Say It in Private”

This is that Steve Goodman record with the cover pic of him in a bathtub styled after that famous David painting, The Death of Marat (1793)—showing the guy dead in his bathtub, I guess assassinated, stabbed to death! Which makes me uncomfortable, since the time a landlord barged in while I was taking a bath (plumbing problem, water leaking, not my fault). You don’t want that—you want to be able to relax and write in your bathtub like a normal person. It just occurred to me that Clifton Webb, typing in his bathtub, at the beginning of Laura (1944), also refers to that painting. Here, it’s extra disturbing because it’s a photo made to look like a painting or vice versa—I’m not sure which—so it’s a little “uncanny valley.” There are a few cover songs here, and the rest written by or co-written by Steve Goodman—some dealing with social-political themes that are, naturally, dated—best to think of it as a time capsule of 1977. The weird thing is that in the sense that it’s dated, it feels very contemporary—in that “the more things change the more they stay the same” sense. Also, I feel like 1977 was just around the corner in that I don’t usually buy records that come out past 1975 or so—just a preference. Production started getting worse, I don’t know why. I do love Steve Goodman, but this record has a combination of topical humor, irreverence, politics, sentimentality, and bad sound—but all in the wrong places—so it’s a bit of a bummer, for me, overall. I do really like, the more I consider it, the album cover.

2.23.26

Ray Thomas “From Mighty Oaks”

I found this 1975 record in the used store sitting next to its 1976 companion, Hopes, Wishes & Dreams, as if competing for the worst title of all time award. With album cover art to match! (I’ve since encountered them in stores, always the pair, never one without the other!) I thought for a moment they had mis-shelved some drastically reduced nostalgia calendars, but no—two albums from the mid-Seventies that I’d never heard of by a guy I’d never heard of, Ray Thomas (not to be confused with Thomas Ray, the cricketer). But, of course, I’d heard Ray Thomas, as one of the founding members, and flautist, of The Moody Blues. And indeed, it was when that band took a well-deserved break that led to this twin masterwork.

First up, there’s a kind of lame overture, an instrumental medley of songs on the album! I tried to talk them out of it, but who listens to a 15-year-old? But then we get the real first song, the fantastic “Hey Mama Life,” kicking off with a line like, “For a man who drinks his whisky by the jar.” I’m in! Had the members of the Mama Art Movement (c.1987) known about this LP, surely this number would have been our anthem. “Play it Again” is another good one! And if you can say, much less sing, “play it again” without adding “Sam”—you’re a better man than I. The song has a bridge that’s so epic, you want to call it Natural Selection—which even leads to its own solo— impressive. The next, however, is somebody else’s teatime, sorry. Then a decent rocker, highlighted buy some harmonica, speaking of turds. Side Two, however, back on track with the epic, “Love is the Key”—dude is going for it, extending the last words of each line with enough vocal vibrato to cause structural damage in some old buildings. If you thought he might be a bit shy about excessive romantic sentiment, forget it now! “You Make Me Feel Alright”—which I Like Okay. “Adam and I,” AKA, Eve’s Lament, also okay. But finally, “I Wish We Could Fly” is a closer to close all closers—just way, way, way over the top—sounding almost like they didn’t expect to ever do another almost identical record the next year.

The inside cover is an actually kind of pretty, soft-focus and subtle photo of a man (Ray?) and a child—sentimental, but tasteful—which could have easily been the wistful, not disturbing album cover. And then there’s the insert, which opens to a 24-inch-tall, low-contrast b&w photo of Thomas, hands on hips, looking like he’s here to collect the rent. Complete lyrics are superimposed on either side of him. On half the other side is a fantasy inspired illustration of a mighty oak, with gaps and branches and shadows spelling out the record’s title, with Ray Thomas mowed in the grass below. Perhaps this came in second as album cover consideration. But then… on the other side, is one of the best band photos I’ve ever seen, a bit Olan Mills style, and they’re really duded up with enough clashing colors and patterns to cause a disturbance in The Force. You kind of wonder if they got together, with the wardrobe, whimsically—but that hair! Nothing not serious there!

Now, this album cover, as initially gag-inducing as it is, deserves some time here. It opens up to a 24-inch-wide panorama, an idyllic landscape with illustrated creatures (including man and boy) enjoying themselves, but it’s interesting, because when closed, it naturally becomes two different scenes. And you’ll notice on the left side, which is the back cover, a swimming swan and five swan-lets, a bearded man reclining next to a hopeless fishing pole while his focus is on the book he’s reading. Then, in the background, at first seems to be a nostalgic countryside scene with a little house, representing “home.” But if you look more closely, you’ll notice it looks like two identical houses sitting perpendicular and butted up against each other. What could it mean? And instead of one large tree next to the house(s), there are two trees, almost identical—but maybe not quite close enough to hang a hammock from. There is no hammock, either way. And stretching from the left side of the horizon, a rainbow arches into the clouds, but it has no color—it’s a white rainbow! Okay, then, the right side, or front cover, has a swan landing in the water, a boy with a little sailboat, and a dog bounding about. But then, way in the background, under a haze, lies a castle—where, no doubt, lies unspeakable evil.

2.20.26

Ray Thomas “Hopes, Wishes & Dreams”

The magic pointer fell on this 1976 enigma—but wait! There’s an equally as enigmatic 1975 LP with a similar style cover that I bought alongside this one. But I’ll pretend I know nothing about either, and document my impressions of this one, then go back and examine its odd companion and see what I can figure out! At any rate, if you’re apt to listen to the beginning of the first song on a record and reject it based on that initial impression, you might’ve missed out here, because it does not start out splendid. Somebody else’s teatime, to put it mildly. (It’s from whence the off-putting title of this LP comes from.) But you might not have gotten even that far—if you simply looked at the album cover—a sappy, seaside illustration that kind of looks like a drunken Kinkade (and that’s saying something). But then, by the second song, there’s something interesting about it—it’s subtly intriguing. And then by the third song, “We Need Love,” you know something is going on. It’s either an all-out display of unbridled romantic sincerity or a brilliant parody of such. The over-the-top string arrangements helps with that impression. Then a boring song. But the last one, “One Night Stand,” is quite catchy. Or catching, what have you. But what does Side Two have in store for us? Could go either way! A boring rocker starts us off. But then… a beautiful ballad, “Didn’t I”—it’s my favorite on the album—great song. Including a fine, what-sounds-like trumpet solo, but I don’t see trumpet credited—I could enter the rabbit-hole, or… just… let… it… go…

After that, well… kind of dull. If you have a song called “Carousel” and make the organ sound like a calliope… what can I say. Time to focus on the visual artistry! As bad as the album cover is—despite opening up to a panorama—the inside presents a life-size portrait of Ray Thomas that’s so striking, it’s almost equally disturbing and beautiful. He’s a good-looking guy, certainly—hairy—of the time. But this photo, so big and intense—it might literally hypnotize someone. It should come with a warning. And then, there’s a lyrics insert, with credits, and six Polaroid-size musician photos that are pretty amusing. (Among the names: Nicky James, John Jones, Terry James, Trevor Jones. Are they fucking with us? Or just British?) Also funny—there are six guys, five of them with (musical) instruments, and one with a (tobacco) pipe! I mean, he’s he arranger, Terry James, so it kind of makes sense—direct from The Shire. The album purports to be a collaboration with Nicky James, so I’m sure it is, but he only gets one of the soft-focus three-inch squares while Ray gets that monument-size portrait. Could it be about Nicky’s choice of shirts? (See: other review’s notes on the insert of Of Mighty Oaks.) And… on the other side of this insert, it’s the waist up shot of Thomas from the same session—this one smiling, which highlights his God-given choppers—and showcasing a mind-bending shirt. I want that shirt.

2.20.26

Jellyroll “Jellyroll”

If this wasn’t the biggest record of 1970 it isn’t because it’s not energetic, with super-hot playing all around—particularly the rhythm section, and funk guitar, and rock organ, and horns, and a singer who’s going for it—wait, I just said everyone. It’s got an excellent album cover which opens up for a vertical, 24” x 12” psychedelic illustration (by Ignacio Gomez) of a woman made up of an incredible array of confectionery (somewhat in the style of painter Giuseppe Arcimboldo) both appetizing and nightmarish, and suitable for hanging in your crib. The band photo, inside, is very cool. The songs are all very good, solid songs. So what went wrong? Maybe it was the T. S. Eliot quote. I’m just kidding—it’s a good quote—the font’s a little large. Who knows. That saying, “The cream rises to the top?” I firmly believe, with the music industry, it should be: “The shit rises to the top.” Not that the cream doesn’t, sometimes, as well—I suppose both are true—cream and turds. That’s why we have critics, with little poop-scoopers. Well, and then, sometimes great stuff just disappears.

This is their only album. The members of the band went on to play in other bands, at least some of them—I’m not tracking everyone down. Actually, you can find some stuff written about this record online because I think it was kind of “re-discovered” —or is maybe being rediscovered all the time. Which didn’t stop me from finding it for $2 at Half Price Books. If you want some history of the band, or the aftermath—you can find it—I’m not going to regurgitate it here—though one thing I read is particularly interesting—that this band formed out of “The Dapps,” a Cincinnati funk band from the Sixties that backed James Brown for a couple of years. You don’t need to know that to hear it on the record’s best songs, which lapse into some extremely nice funk grooves. The concept of “overdoing it” is virtually absent from this record. I can’t necessarily speak for the band—I’m not implying that they partied ’til they dropped or did the Barkley Marathons or drove their rock bus recklessly—I want to assume they were model citizens and practiced a lot. It’s an accomplished LP.

I usually list the best (my favorite) songs, but my editor said don’t do that, it’s boring, so I’ve got a “Restless Feeling” to follow a different approach and “Search for a Memory” (hot), since the song titles lend themselves to a miniature abstract psychedelic narrative for your pleasure, including a “cover” of the 1968 single from psych band Aorta—a song I’m familiar with, even though I’ve never heard of Aorta!  “Strange.” I’ve tried to forget the past, and I’m “Trying to Forget Someone Too” during a “Quick Trip” to the convenience store for microwave pizza in order to “Help Me Over” (very good) to Side Two which just gets better, “Come On, Baby” (!) and “Follow Me” (!!) “At the Beginning of Tomorrow” (AKA, midnight) for some “Hard Times” (fav on the record) where I’m standing on the inside looking out (AKA “Standing on the Inside”—exceptional closer). So. They all went their separate ways, as far as I can tell. Any further info can be transmitted for free. One side note: the drummer, Stu Perry, went on to play with Blue Rose. Which renders this a Blue Rose case.

2.13.26

The Mom and Dads “20 Favorite Waltzes”

They weren’t kidding, ten songs per side, waltzes, polka, each with identical sound and tempo, but each as unique as a fingerprint (or song). So few notes, so many songs, it always freaks me out to think about. The excellent cover photo of the band (one mom and three dads, and they look great) is bordered by a 1984 re-release hot-pink frame that really poorly compliments the musicians’ Pepto-toned vests, white shirts and pants (and skirt), and white, leather shoes. As is often the case, expanding the photo to cover the entire cover would have been a better option. The back cover lists all of the songs and composer credits, but fails to credit the band whatsoever. We have the internet for that, but when this record came out, I guess you had to know a Mom and Dads enthusiast or something, or maybe already have one of their records—they released tons between 1970 and this time. Frankly, it’s not my cup of beef barley soup—and by the time I got through this epic journey, I felt like I’d paid my dues, sure enough. I don’t dislike the music, but I’d much rather hear it live—and you can still find polka bands performing in Milwaukee (I think—sadly, the Pandemic rendered nothing a sure thing—even eggs aren’t necessarily eggs). Weirdly, I realize that I know most of these songs—and the ones I don’t know are so much like the ones I know, it makes me question everything—and brings back, for a few, brief seconds—a dream I had last night—believe it or else!

2.10.26

Leon Russell “Leon Russell”

On my copy, the Shelter Records logo is blocked out with a black bar, why? I asked the Professor and was informed that it’s because the logo resembled the “Superman” “S” —so there was a lawsuit. Which strikes me as ridiculous, unless they were claiming Superman sang on the records—and as we all know, the Man of Steel sucks as a musician. You know who doesn’t? Leon Russell. Anyway, it turns out that that black bar makes this a rare record—looks like it’s worth a million bucks. You know who doesn’t look like a million bucks? Leon Russell. The picture of him on the cover looks like it’s maybe from 1870, not 1970 (year of this release). He tops that considerably in the small picture on the back, smoking, and wearing a dented top hat. The rings around his eyes look like craters of the Moon. Well, frankly, he looks like a zombie—except for his expression, which is plaintive, if you ask me. All songs written, or cowritten by him. “A Song for You,” pretty much just piano and singing, is a perfect song. Then we rock out a bit. “Hummingbird” is nice. “Delta Lady,” a classic. “Pisces Apple Lady” is one you can move to. Plus, that title. “Roll Away the Stone,” another stone classic. There are no musician credits anywhere in sight, but he “dedicates” the record to quite a stellar posse—were they who played on this fine outing? It’s a list that could comprise a band and half, to say the least. Do I especially like Leon Russell because of his last name, that reminds me of me? Or because of his first name, that reminds me of Leon? Or because it’s not even his real name? —which is: The Master of Space and Time. Or because he’s a one-of-a-kind recording artist? All answers are correct.

2.6.26

Jefferson Airplane “Long John Silver”

This is one of those records that, if you find it in a secondhand store, it will only be in its inner sleeve—no album cover—because the original cover was one of the dumbest gimmicks since New Coke. There are perforations, die-cuts, and instructions to fold it into a fake cigar box where you can hide your weed (making it a “stash box”)—effectively fooling mothers… nowhere. Assuming your mother is okay with you smoking cigars (weirdly, mine was) absolutely none are going to be fooled by the “Long John Silver Humidor Pack”—in the wrong proportions, flimsily built—any more than they’ll confuse the odor of either weed, or effect on the smoker. Well, good luck finding it, anyway, which is why you’ll see, in the used records, this album in its excellent inner sleeve (heavy paper, at least) with a life-size depiction of nine cigars (well, I hope no actual cigar is that big) each with a band sporting the letters “JA” (Junior Achievement?)—I suppose the nine representing the members of the band, the producer, and their tobacconist. As luck would have it, I did eventually find a second copy of the LP with a nearly pristine original cover—which I’m not going to turn into a stash box. I might, however, turn one of the discs into an ashtray. The most useless feature of the stash box is that, on the inside is printed a huge (nearly 12” square) photo of some very gnarly looking marijuana. I’m not sure how it makes any sense to store your actual product on top of a photo of it—perhaps it’s just for dreamers. I wonder if there’s some kind of “hack” to fold it this way and that, so your actual album cover is just a photo of “Mary Jane”—which would be kind of cool, actually.

I’m glad there’s so much to say about the cover because I don’t believe this is the Airplane’s finest—much of it sounds like tired hippie sludge. Okay, that’s too harsh—I’m still staring at the weed photo—just the image gives me a headache and makes my throat burn, and I can almost see those seeds popping. I really kind of love every minute of Jefferson Airplane, the highs and the lows, and the songs that do nothing at all—no one else sounds like them and vice versa. I think this was close to their last record, which came out in 1972—sadly I didn’t get ahold of it when I was twelve. Without consulting untrustworthy-net, I’m going to guess it was followed by Ivar’s Acres of Clams, and then a sabbatical for digestion. The lyrics, of course, are more or less worth the trouble to be printed in small capital letters on the back of the cigars. They do a thing I appreciate and close with nicely aggressive heavy-duty number, called “Eat Starch Mom”—it leaves a good taste in my mouth. My favorite on the record is hidden in the middle of the first side, called “Twilight Double Leader” which is about, I have no clue, but it sounds better than “Twi-night Doubleheader.” It’s kind of a killer, and the only song here that had me dancing, in spite of myself, and woefully lacking a streaming channel I can call home. Even that one, however, intoxicated by its own groove, ultimately peters out.

1.30.26

Laurie Kaye Cohen “Under the Skunk”

My favorite oddball LP I found last year—the kind of old record that reminds me why it’s worth picking up crap you know nothing about and turns out to be crap—because one in a million turns out to be a masterpiece. That’s a lot of hyperbole, but if every one of the twelve songs on the record was as good as the best three or four, there would be whole wing for it in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, with a Lake Erie view. Naturally, in the store, I was attracted to the very weird cover, that makes no sense whatsoever. The top half is a color photo of a naked, bearded man (LKC?) frolicking in a hayloft with five naked, female mannequins, one of whom is holding a can of Coke! (Best product placement ever?) The photo has an absolutely not-set-up feel—there are details that make no sense—so you’ve got to think it was a candid snapshot caught in the wild—nearly exposing what would have been too explicit even for the record label in question. The lower half of the cover is a black and white, extreme closeup of a bearded man (LKC?) and it’s pretty hairy. It was only when I found a couple of odd photos of the LP online that I realized that the top half of the black & white photo exists on a cardboard flap that hung over the color hayloft photo—so if you’d seen it in a store, shrink-wrapped, it would just look like a hippie with a skunk (I’m guessing) hat—then, once you get home, you can open it and be shocked by the naked mannequin interior (thus the title: “Under the Skunk”). The studio and musician credits are unfortunately on the back of my missing flap, but I was able to find those online, as well. All songs by LKC, and an impressive lineup of 1970s studio musicians worthy of a Steely Dan outing. Some of the songs also have some pretty over-the-top string arrangements, worthy of a Richard Harris outing. Studios in both LA and London. My copy does include, at least, the glossy inner sleeve (this is the only vinyl I own on Playboy Records!) each side of which is a rainbow background over which are neat rows of the Playboy logo (black, silhouette, bowtied bunny)—I’ll count them—551, per side! The back cover is dominated with the complete lyrics, which are excellent, as well as a very short, inscrutable note from, presumably, LKC, leading me to believe a conversation with him around this time may well have been a somewhat far-out experience.

Even with all that shocking art and excellent musicianship, the real star is the singing of this mysterious Laurie Kaye Cohen—I’m not normally a vocal nerd, but put him in a doughnut shop with any of the monsters of 1973 and my money is on LKC coming out alive. Soulful, subtle, and ridiculous dynamics. It’s not just fireworks, either—I believe every word. And the lyrics are great, as I said. What’s really a mystery is how he only recorded one record. Where did he go? I mean, I’m assuming that Discogs is correct—usually pretty thorough. The only other credit they have for him is one record (1976) with a band called “Giants”—which I’ll, of course, now watch out for. Well, at least we have this document from my favorite recorded year, 1973. Personally, my focus, with music, is on songs—which is the strength (and weakness) of this record, but mostly the former. I’ve listened to it over and over since I found it—which takes me back to when I used to buy a contemporary record every couple of weeks and get fully immersed in it. I missed this one, when I was 13, but I may not have appreciated it at the time. I don’t like all the songs equally, but it’s strong enough as a whole that the ones I love more than make up for what’s not my brand of herbal tea. The best song might be the epic, “Ain’t Nobody Ever Satisfied with A Dream,” which goes from a quiet vocal and electric piano to a swelling, over-the-top arrangement and matching emotional rendering. That almost closes out the record, but it’s followed by a beautiful gospel number, “Shall Be Saved”—with, it sounds like, a straightforward message of faith. Did LKC disappear, then, into a quiet life of service to the Lord? Well, I haven’t heard Giants. The album does have a lot of references to religious faith, but he only name-drops J.C. once, I believe—and there’s an equal amount of wit and humor. “If I find the road to heaven/tell you what I’m gonna do/I’ll send a map down to my agent/he’s got a piece of what’s up here too.” That’s from “The Road to Heaven,” one of my favorites. Others: “Don’t Cry,” “Whitney,” “Father,” “Delilah”—fathers, daughters, dogs. I once lived with a dog named Delilah—though the one here is “a lady”—that his dog Samson brought home—how literal all this is, is anybody’s guess.

1.23.26

The Charlie Byrd Quartet “Let Go”

I’m fascinated when a photograph of a face on an album cover is larger than life-size—aside from the occasional LP, most of us won’t have photos that large at home—but we rarely think twice about it. This one, an unidentified beautiful woman, would be a giant if she was that big—you can put your lips right up to it, if you want—it’s your record! Her otherworldly blue eyes, however, will never meet yours—she’s looking off, we presume, in the direction of the live, jazz, quartet—Charlie Byrd, guitar, Mario Darpino, flute, Gene Byrd, bass, and William Reichenbach, drums. Initially, you wouldn’t know it’s live unless you’ve read the brief liner notes by Bil Keane—he describes the scene—February 27th and 28th of 1969 in the Hong Kong Bar at the Century Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles. After a few songs, then, we do hear applause. I live in the Plaza Hotel in Milwaukee—and sometimes I wish we had something like the Hong King Bar! I have far too few jazz guitar records, but this one is perfect, really, for what it is—there are about 800 (I say that when I don’t want to count) Byrd records, I’m sure better and worse ones—but this one is mine. I do wonder how many have a “bird/Byrd” pun in the title—I’ll check—only counted six, so maybe they honed it in. No one is honing in this flautist, however—dude’s out of control. “Let Go”—named after the first song, here. I have no idea how I came across this vinyl—I’m thinking thrift store. There is Brazilian music, bossa nova—all really good—and then some very recognizable standards. I’ve got to admit supreme pleasure each time we come upon one I know: “Mood Indigo,” “Here’s That Rainy Day,” “How Long Has This Been Going On”—and to bring us right up to date, a couple of Bacharach/David numbers. For whatever reason, I’m obsessed with “This Guy’s in Love with You”—one of those songs I collect versions of, and this one is extra fine—short and sweet.

1.16.26

Barry White “Stone Gon’”

Sure, sure, I’ve only got a half-dozen Barry White records, but this one, from 1973, is my favorite. It’s also my favorite (hypothetical) make-out record. And on good days, when I eschew the TV, sports, and audiobooks, and just play music, it’s right up there with the everyday dozen LPs I leave out for easy access. I don’t get tired of it. Only five songs, but they’re all longish to long. Side 2 (two songs) ends with the hit single (if you obtain the 45, I think it’s only half the length, but why??) “Never, Never Gonna Give You Up,” the album’s most energetic track—you can dance to it, which I’d be doing right now if I wasn’t typing. It also sounds like the soundtrack for a movie, but what a movie! —it’s its own movie—the verses and bridge sound like they’re leading to the edge of tragedy, but the chorus is pure love song. I like the first side even better, the slow, quiet lead-in, Barry White’s suave, spoken intro that goes on long enough that I’m always fooled into thinking that’s what the entire record will be (wouldn’t mind), but then, of course, he sings. Then there’s a relatively short, really catchy, relatively up-tempo, R&B pop number. The side ends with a nine-minute epic that’s so lovely, it always seems to zip by. More golden voice monologue, and swelling, romantic orchestral pop, and fine melody.

The confusing album cover opens out to a 2-foot square of mostly blank cardboard, as if further artwork was pending. Well, there are 8 lines of lyrics on one of the glossy 1-foot-square quarters, looking exactly like it’s written with black sharpie in neat cursive. Which leaves an entire, blank, white glossy square. What the hell? I’m almost tempted to print this review, with sharpie, right there. No, hell! I’m gonna do it! Anyway, I’m also tempted to buy more versions of the record just to see if I got shortchanged here—or maybe this is the rarest of 20th Century Records misprinted covers, and I could sell this via Christie’s and retire. Probably not. What we do have on the printed part, as well as the cardboard inner sleeve, is three photos of the Barry White from slightly different angles—he’s at a white, grand piano, and we glimpse a lady just barely entering the frame. The background is an otherworldly mural of an eerie mountain and desert landscape under black, starry sky. There’s a gold chalice of wine sitting at a place on the piano where you really don’t want it to spill. Sometimes I’ll see a ridiculous drinking glass, best suited for show, only, or maybe Satanic ritual, in, say, an antique store, and say: “I’m gonna buy that, and only drink from that, from now on!” I’m joking of course. All talk. But I’m guessing Barry White would really use a glass like that, in the studio, or at home. It’s hard to imagine him in sweatpants. That’s why I’m just a talker… and Barry White is Barry White.

1.9.26

The Ventures “The Ventures’ Christmas Album”

I over-use the word “jaunty,” I realize, and experiencing some concern that I’ve been using it incorrectly, I looked it up in my desktop, Random-Webster Dictionary and, wha-da-ya-know, under the definition (“sprightly in manner”—something no sane person would ever say) was a picture of this record! Believe it or else. And it’d have to be, to get these 12 Christmas classics down in under 27 minutes. Well, they do manage to make some songs sound like the soundtrack for a secret agent. I must admit, however, that I no longer have patience for X-mas tunes. I enjoy the holiday, except for being bludgeoned by increasingly pointless versions—did the Sex Pistols really need to reunite for another “All I Want for Christmas (Is My Two Front Teeth)?” I’m at the point where the only Christmas song I love is the Vince Guaraldi Trio “Christmas Time is Here”—from A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we’ve been watching on TV since 1965 (same year this record came out)—at least until some slimeball, hiding behind “blame it on corporate greed,” made the decision to make people pay for it. How much money, really, do you need? Well… Anyway, the album cover shows Ventures Mosrite guitars, and drumsticks, in front of a wreath, and song titles, and the back manages to squeeze in images of 19 Ventures records. There are some oddball takes here, for sure. Sometimes they launch into a well-known pop song and then seamlessly slide into the X-mas classic. The ghostly “Scrooge” would fit better on a Halloween collection. My favorites are when they slow it down a little: “White Christmas,” a beautiful “Blue Christmas,” and a truly inspired, country version of “Silver Bells” that bends some notes so far, the cat could reach them. Those happen to be the only songs on the record (along with “Rudolph”) with colors in the titles—I don’t know if that means anything.

1.2.26

Toñin Ortiz Y Su Trio “En El Rincon De Una Barra”

The first song, “En El Rincon De Una Barra,” from which the album takes its title, translates to English, the internet tells me, as “in the corner of a bar,” which one might suppose to be literal, and somewhat off, except that on the album cover, who I assume is the singer, Toñin Ortiz, is standing right up against an inside corner of a bar. Which is kind of odd, because most bars go straight across and don’t have corners—so they really had to make an effort here! Some other corner of the internet says “the drinker’s corner”—which could be more metaphorical. The song might be quite famous, but I don’t know it, but I get a feeling from the song, no less. It does sound familiar, but maybe just from listening to this a lot. I don’t remember where I got this record, but I was certainly attracted to the full-cover photo, an old-time looking bar with a handsome, dangerous looking man wearing crisp light blue, including a scarf with a silver clasp. He’s holding a cocktail glass in one hand (likely a Scotch-based concoction, as there’s a bottle of Pinch sitting there) and has a very long cigarette in the other. On the back is a picture of the trio—there are two guitars, one rhythm and the other playing really beautiful, clear notes. I can listen to this all day—even with no Spanish—after all, I can never understand most English lyrics anyway. I had this fantasy that I only owned six records, and this was one—so I went on a deep dive and unearthed all the meaning, learned to play the guitar (best I could, anyway), and over time I would deepen my love (as well as annoyance) with it! Of course, I generally want more records, but “What If?” That leads me to think, recorded music is infinite—at least in relation to one person’s ability to take all of it in. A thought which leads me to think about all of those “greatest” lists—which are absurd—and makes me pity the journalists, sure, but also makes me a little angry.

12.26.25

Lou and Peter Berryman “(No Relation) – The Club de Wash Presents Peter & Lou Berryman”

Generally, in spite of an incredibly open mind, I’d say this isn’t my type of thing—humorous folk songs—but it’s pretty irresistible if you allow it to be—the accordion helps. It’s a lovely accordion. Lou and Peter Berryman are folk singers and songwriters—Lou (woman) plays accordion, and Peter (man) plays guitar, and they both sing and write the songs. This is their first of about 20 records, since 1980. It’s on their own label, called Cornbelt. The internet leads me to believe they’re still out there, still playing, though they’re getting up in years (relatively). Well, their website says they played a “post retirement” show in 2024—so maybe they’re retired. Their website is nice, personable, and it’s got an extensive history of their partnership. The title of this record refers to the Club de Wash—where some of this was recorded—which was in a hotel in Madison, Wisconsin, that sadly burned down. Some was recorded in a studio—it’s very well recorded. There were a couple of times I looked up, startled, thinking they might have snuck in my room! I mean, for all I know, one of them might reside in the building. Some of my favorites are “Squalor,” “Squirrelly Valley,” “The Dog’s Asleep,” “Are You Drinking with Me Jesus” (of course!) and “So Many Pies” (for the title alone—plus, they perform an uncanny record skip!) There’s a great, 8x10, b&w, photo, on the cover, of the crowd at the Club de Wash (and includes Lou and Peter.) I mean, it’s just 30-some people in a room, with beer—but it feels like a time capsule—just in that it’s very natural and crystal clear. Think about it, this is at least 45 years ago—probably everyone there is older than me. It’d be cool to see someone, in that photo, that you knew! What if you saw one of your parents? You’d want to own this record! (And maybe you do.)

12.19.25

Ahmad Jamal “Jamal at the Penthouse”

If it came down to only listening to jazz records, I’d be happy with that. I mean, no TV, no rock’n’roll, no podcasts, no sports. I’d still be able to read books (let’s not go nuts) and go to movies and the theatre. I’d be sad about some of the music I’d be missing, but jazz records are an endless journey. In this fantasy, of course, I’ve got a good local store where I can buy records for a reasonable price, and a real job—so I wouldn’t be limiting myself to $3 records. Whenever I find something like this in the cheap bins I inhabit, it feels like a bonus, even if it is scratchier than a cat. I’m not going to simply list tracks and credits—assuming the reader can simply ask the virtual assistant—or, if you’re ambitious, there are extensive back cover liner notes by Dick Martin—mini bios of both Ahmad Jamal and Joe Kennedy, and interesting song-by-song observations. We hear pianist Ahmad Jamal and his trio, along with strings—the orchestra conducted by Joe Kennedy. It’s a too brief record—short versions of only nine songs (three of which are Jamal compositions) but every second is delightful—there are little surprises (little being sometimes better—often better than big surprises). I really do wish the record was longer—like way longer—you put it on in the morning and take it off before bed. The “Penthouse” in the title is the “Nola Penthouse Studios” in New York—where it was recorded, February 1959—on the 17th floor of the old Steinway Building. Now, there, is one of those moronic, super-tall-thin apartment buildings that give me the willies. Personally, the last earthquake I experienced was in NYC—even mild ones aren’t funny. But these new buildings are “earthquake-proof”—ha, someone send a memo to Irwin Allen! I’m assuming the cover photo is the old Steinway—it’d be weird if it wasn’t—and I really like it, taken at dusk—it gives me the feeling both of the big city, and also, loneliness, melancholy. It doesn’t exactly match the music, which is, for the most part, exuberant—but I’ll take it—they really knew how to throw together an album cover back then.

12.12.25

Jackie Gleason “Jackie Gleason presents the Gentle Touch”

I love the Jackie Gleason records—though my initial reaction to this 1961 offering is that it possibly sets the gold standard for blandness. I don’t mean that in a bad way, and, in fact, the opposite, because that’s what I want! It’s not “easy listening,” which I don’t believe in, but it is mood music, whatever that means—and what’s the mood, exactly, here? It’s a little too up-tempo for romance—unless say, the romance involves… not going there. No, there’s something going on here, and I don’t know what it is… but that’s just because I’m too unsophisticated to get to the bottom of it. I’ll try the brief, uncredited liner notes, which immediately point out that the woodwinds arrangements here are somewhat of a departure from the usual Gleason strings—also more up-tempo than we’re used to—okay, so I can see that. It also mentions a “pair of trumpeters” who are improvising against a background of reeds, rhythm section, and “four discretely-employed orchestral trumpets.” If that doesn’t get you interested… of course you are! Only 12 tracks here, standards, about half of which I’m familiar with. Relatively short by Gleason standards—indeed, there’s enough room between the final grooves and the label to take the whole family ice-skating. Two moon songs—apropos this week’s “Cold” (Full) Moon! The album cover is the final straw—at first seeming to be merely a murky barely focused action shot of an elegant woman feigning ecstasy—but if you look closer, you see another human(?) head from the top—so only a protruding nose is discernible—against the woman’s exposed neck. Lover? Man, woman, or vampire? I’m going with the latter, of course—and now it all makes sense, when taken as a whole—this LP is one of the oddest expressions (that I know of) of popular bloodsucking lore.

12.5.25

Bob Lind “Photographs of Feeling”

I chanced on another Bob Lind record awhile aback (“Don’t Be Concerned”) which I liked, so when I had the chance to pick this one up (also from 1966), I was hoping for more of the same sound—which for most part it has—hard to explain exactly the appeal to me, but I like it. I guess it’s considered “folk”—and I suppose it is, to some extent—but it strikes me more as a kind of baroque pop. Maybe baroque is too strong—but it’s somewhat unique in style—starting with the songwriting—all songs by Bob Lind—and then the production (Jack Nitzsche), which has a good amount of mysterious space—and the arrangements (Nitzsche), some of it very lush, with strings and unidentifiable instruments. The romantic lyrics work beautifully with this sound. As it happens, as I write this, it’s Bob Lind’s 83rd birthday—I didn’t try for that—but the random arrow often chances on such alignment. “Remember the Rain,” that’s a good one. The album cover nicely fakes 2 X 3-inch photos in photograph album style, and… no one’s winning the Ansel Adams Achievement Award here, though there is an impressive collection of murk. I don’t know if I’ve ever read liner notes quite this ebullient—well, it took two of them, Charles Greene and Brian Stone—maybe one typed while the other shoveled—but, anyway, who’s to say it’s not all true, and Lind is a god—ten songs here—decide for yourself. Some of this record I do love, but not all of it. I could skip the songs that happen to refer to U.S. cities and “home”—just my preference—but I love the rest of them, including the one that refers to a state (“West Virginia Summer Child”), a specific woman (“Elinor”) and the Morris Minor automobile (“Go Ask Your Man”) —and a few others!

11.28.25

Isaac Hayes “Hot Buttered Soul”

Maybe my favorite all-time album cover (or in the top-ten), over half the 144 square inches of image space taken up by the top of Isaac Hayes’s perfectly bald head. There are probably more than a few people, since 1969, whose insanity was manifested by meticulously counting the thus exhibited bald head pores. They pored over the pores. (Which isn’t to say his head isn’t as smooth as the music on this record.) It’s almost abstract—you can see part of one ear, his sunglasses from the top, and then, falling out of focus, shoulders and heavy gold chains. It’s really quite beautiful. And the record is even better. If I was going to pick an ultimate work of art that I would hold up as something I would aspire to—that is, in some magical world where I was capable of anything (books, bridges, full-length movies, 12-inch vinyl)—it might be this album. Does that mean it’s my favorite LP? —in a way, yes—but I can’t pick a favorite (in spite of my “lists”). Since the day I compiled some cassette tapes from a giant Stax records collection about 25 years ago, I’ve listened to this version of the Bacharach/David classic “Walk On By” way too many times to even hear it any more, yet on this day, it again sounds like the most amazing thing ever set to tape, with those strings, backup singers, some insane guitar, The Bar-Kays rhythm section, and the whole Isaac Hayes interpretation. Two long songs on this side, that, and a funk pop number “Hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic” (take that, spellcheck) which would itself be a standout on any other 1969 (or any year) record (especially the middle, instrumental jam part, which I would love to just have a 90-minute version of—or even longer).

Only two songs on Side Two, as well, first, a really nice soul ballad, “One Woman,” that I guess Al Green recorded first (but not by much)—a pretty sweet song—but that chorus: “One woman is making my home/while the other woman is making me do wrong”—infuses the whole project with a healthy amount of realism and sadness. An excellent song, and this is a fine version. And finally, an amazing 19-minute journey called “By the Time I Get To Phoenix”—a great song, but far from my favorite Jimmy Webb composition (just because there are so many that are so good), but it’s a song that, over the years, I’ve compiled a collection of cover versions (there are songs I love to do this with) —and there are some good ones. (Also, a lot, I need a bigger box!) The first I’d heard, of course, was Glen Campbell’s, which I’d been too barraged with as a youth to really appreciate. So, it wasn’t until decades later, hearing other inspired versions of it, that I recognized it as a great song. The Isaac Hayes version here is my favorite. It starts out with an intro that’s longer than most Sunday sermons—our man doing a mini Webb bio and non-history of its composition, while setting up his take, to “bring it on down to Soulsville”—and the only sound, during all this, besides the golden voice, is steady tapping on a cymbal, and what sounds like one key pressed on the Hammond organ—maybe the longest continuous single note in recording history—which you almost don’t even notice—but then you notice the wavering “tremolo” and realize your literally hearing, in action, a Leslie speaker, spinnin’ away. Finally, we launch into the lyrics, and another fine arrangement, really nice piano, too, and a deep vocal interpretation. And if that all isn’t enough—he extends the song with a lengthy outro that includes his improvisational riffing on the whole sad story, and then a minimal but awesome horn section for even more drama, and then the slow-machinegun drums adding to the emotional overload, and finally, some organ pyrotechnics—but tastefully—until he brings it down—and it gets quiet again—and then finally finishes out, highlighted by even more nutso organ, and again! quiet—and (for real, this time) finishes with an organ chord that sounds exactly like church.

11.21.25

Glen Campbell “Burning Bridges”

First two songs are great—can it continue? Kind of melancholy. I love Glen Campbell, but I really love his recordings of those Jimmy Webb hits—so, seeing, here, the “Webb-less” song selection gets me a little disappointed in advance—but ol’ Glen can still win me over—and he does, along with this fine selection of beautiful and mellow old-fashioned tear-jerkers with strings and chorus. And that could be that—but I’ll elaborate a little, seein’ how I get paid by the word. Indeed, this 1967 Campbell came up on the random docket, which reminded me I didn’t have a copy of his Wichita Lineman album—and that song is not only my favorite GC, but one of my favorite songs anywhere! Not hard to find, so I bought a used copy—and guess what—the rest of the record is kind of a bummer. This being a much more satisfying C&W record—a real “beer diluter,” as they say. The shallow-focus cover photo is mysterious—Glen emerging from behind an enormous tree! (That takes up two-thirds of the space, and over which is the title and song selection, etc.) Conspiracy theorists may be able to identify (imagined or not) messages in the tree’s out-of-focus bark. Also notable, should you isolate the foremost and top region of Glen Campbell’s considerable hair—well… don’t. The liner notes are uncredited but interesting and well-informed. Songs are by country legends, and it’s an old-time Nashville sound, in arrangements, and production (Al De Lory). Just one song by Glen Campbell, titled “Less of Me”—though I noted that there’s enough space, next to the label on Side Two, for “More of Me”—but no dice. My favorites are “You’ve Still Got a Place in My Heart,” “Too Late to Worry, Too Blue To Cry,” “Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall,” and the title track. I’ve never been able to listen to Buck Owens’ classic “Together Again” since some late-night movie host jokers excessively used an illegal soundbite of it, but the version here redeems it… for now.

11.14.25