Blodwyn Pig “Ahead Rings Out”

I would love to approach this record as if I was in the North Woods in a cabin with a hi-fi and some records and no internet. Might not get past the album cover, bright orange, with a bright yellow circle around a blue circle in which is placed a carefully cut out image of a (I’d like to think, alive) pig’s head on which is collaged some round, designer sunglasses, stereo headphones, a nose ring, and a smoldering marijuana cigarette! I’m sure it’s not even close to the most hideous album cover of the 12-inch vinyl era (a big era, with a lot of travesty), but even entering that conversation perhaps paints the picture. The yellow circle contains the band name, Blodwyn Pig (meaning, you tell me) and the album title, “Ahead Rings Out” (why not)—both in a font called “Look-it Me.” The back cover offers very little respite—in fact none—as it’s exactly the same, except for song titles instead of band name, and, instead of the pig head there is what one can only logically conclude is a pig tail, in that this is the ass-side of the cover—but maybe I’m wrong, because aren’t pig tails curly? And this thing looks more like a deformed carrot or an unidentified piece of cooked meat. Yes, it’s gross.

Assuming I get the vinyl on the player, I would love to approach it via a song-by-song basis. “It’s Only Love” is a rousing, hot, R&B number, or maybe blues rock, with an overwhelming horn section and a driving rhythm, until we get to a horn solo and then a guitar solo. Okay, these guys can play, but this song is nothing you haven’t heard on a non-pig-head record. “Dear Jill” slows it down with a slide guitar and plaintive vocal, the usual man apologizing to the woman about neglecting her (likely because he’s spending all his time rehearsing music). Another nice horn solo. “Walk On the Water” then, gets a little prog-y, I guess, or maybe it’s a commercial for orange juice. These are all pleasant, listenable songs, by the way, even if my descriptions don’t convey that. “The Modern Alchemist” begins with a horn, then some stopping and starting, and then a full-on jazz rock jam instrumental. This is a fantastic song—drums, bass, guitar, and horns (I know for a fact that this dude sometimes plays two horns simultaneously). At some point the horn drops out and the guitar solos for a while—it’s an excellent guitar sound—very clean, pure, and organic. Then the horns come back—also, an excellent horn sound. It all slows waaay down, to almost nothing. It’s a very minimal sound. And naturally it goes back to the original riff to end the song.

But wait, the cover opens up, and inside there’s four photos of the four band members, with their respective instruments (the horn player indeed with two mouthpieces inserted). A lot of hair; of the time. And liner notes! Some production notes, and a date: 1969. The liner notes are by Mick Abrahams, and he starts out explaining how you can turn the album cover into party hats (no one has ever done this). Then a song-by-song rundown—exactly what I’m doing right now! Seeing how he’s one of the songwriters and singers, and the guitarist, his are probably more informed. Also, funnier! However, I’ve got a little more distance, and thus, objectivity.

Side Two continues with “See My Way,” an upbeat number with a horn riff underneath, driving it, then guitar matching the horn. The bass player and drummer are excellent by the way. Some vocals about, I don’t know, and another super-hot guitar solo. “Summer Day” starts with a really fine blues guitar riff which alternates with some blues vocals—it’s all very tight and minimal—and super catchy—my favorite on the record—sounds like two guitars and no horns on this one—another hot solo—and it ends with one of the blokes rambling incoherently. “Change Song” is an acoustic blues, nothing you haven’t heard before, though it’s really quite pretty. Without the lyric sheet, there’s probably something subtle here I’m missing, but now I’m missing the insane horns, come on! “Backwash” is a very short flute interlude which leads into: “Ain’t Ya Coming Home?” —and horns are back! A song with a lot of little parts, like a rock opera in just over 5 minutes, which is exactly how long rock operas should be limited to.

My curiosity gets the best of me, so I take the jeep into the closest country store with a barely attached café, with coffee and wi-ifi, and I spend no time finding that the band members were Mick Abrahams on guitar, Jack Lancaster on sax and flute, Andy Pyle, bass, and Ron Berg, drums. This was their first record—they released another the next year, and that was that. They should have been the next supergroup, but you know, people come and go. It’s hard enough to keep a marriage together much less four guys who are all hot musicians. I usually won’t refer to videos (and certainly not via link, for the love of god), but since I already paid the exorbitant wi-ifi internet use tax here, I want to mention a couple of extraordinary bits I quickly found (didn’t dig too deep). One is a black and white, live version of “The Modern Alchemist” for the Beat-Club TV show—that seems to be oddly lacking the guitarist—but the other three do an amazing rendition of the song—and it’s shot nicely, as well. The last thing is also Beat-Club, and it’s apparently after The Pig disbanded, I think—it’s the “Mick Abrahams Band,” running thru a fun and funny song called “Greyhound Bus”—cool to watch ol’ Mick play that guitar, and there’s an organ player who is quite insane. I watched it, to say the least, a few times—this is what they made the internet for.

3.27.26

Larry Penn “I’m a Little Cookie”

I have to admit—not being hip to the Milwaukee folk music scene, or any folk music scene, or any Milwaukee scene—that I’d never heard of Larry Penn, and the reason I bought this 1983 record is because I saw it in the store (in 2023) and there’s a giant drawing of what looks like a gingerbread man, and the album is called “I’m a Little Cookie.” I mean, how can you resist that? Once I heard it, however, I was in love with the sound, the singing and playing, and the songs, and so it’s been “on repeat” here at the lab to the extent that a few of my neighbors have gotten together to request I “cool it” with the “cookie song.” There is something inherently funny about cookies just because they will cause even the most adult adult to suddenly become five years old. (I admit, if I had a gluten-free windmill cookie on hand, I’d be eating it right now!) As far as I can tell, the title song is about disregarding the flaws in things, I think. My record comes with two two-page inserts (so if you need an extra, let me know) which includes full lyrics—though Larry Penn sings so clearly, you don’t need a lyric sheet. One nice thing, however, as he notes—in a live performance he might accompany the song with an intro, anecdote, or story, so here we get that in written form, and the comments are great bits accompanying the songs. A lot of labor songs, pro-union songs, nice to hear. Me, being a weirdo, find that my favorite songs (as with everything else) are about food, and my favorite on this record is about—at least on the surface—speculating on how a flamingo would taste, cooked “golden brown.” Yikes! Though, he may be (see the notes) referring to “pink flamingos.” Larry Penn passed away in 2014 at the age of 87. It looks like some local folk musicians and old friends of his hold a tribute concert every year and play his songs and no doubt reminisce. The songs on this record are timeless and, I suppose, are growing more timely as time goes on.

3.20.26

Skeeter Davis “The End of the World” / “Somebody Loves You”

“The End of the World” was Skeeter Davis’ biggest hit song and it’s one of the most beautiful and saddest, and it’s also one of my favorites. Taking nothing away from everything else she ever recorded. This single is from 1962—but I honestly can’t remember when I first heard it. It’s written by Sylvia Dee and Arthur Kent. Produced by Chet Atkins. Over the years, it was covered by a ton o’ artists—let me look up to see if there’s any particularly weird ones—whoa, way too many to delve into—maybe on a rainy Saturday. I am going to predict that the Skeeter Davis version remains my favorite—and that’s simply because she’s my favorite singer. Also, it’s a simple, elegant arrangement—piano, strings, and a little steel guitar—it accentuates the charm of her singing. I never get tired of it. Toward the end there’s a subtle key change, and then she does that thing where she speaks a couple of lines (no one does that better)—but only two lines, and then she sings the rest, and then it’s over. It leaves you wanting more. Put the needle back to the beginning. There’s something else about the song—lyrically—which is hard for me to articulate. It’s a basic love song (but very effective in its sadness)—your broken heart makes you feel like the world’s ending, sure. The funny thing is, you can actually use it as an expression for… the end of the world—be it an individual death, or death of all life on Earth—comparing those tragedies to a broken heart—in kind of a reverse metaphor! The B-Side, “Somebody Loves You,” is another Skeeter Davis classic—a lovely romantic number by Charles Tobias and Peter De Rose—it could be anyone’s A-Side.

3.13.26

Renaissance “azure d’or”

I wrote about a previous Renaissance LP almost a year ago to the day so I looked at what I said, in order not to repeat myself—and I could be lazy, here, and just say “ditto” and provide a link to that one. But, alas, I’m not in the providing a link game (which I kind of despise) so I’ll just repeat myself a little. I picked up half a dozen $3 Renaissance records in a bit of a flurry at my former favorite antique mall $3 bin (he’s since moved to the “boondocks”) just because I could, and due to liking the “Annie in Wonderland” (Annie Haslam) record so much, but I haven’t liked any as much as that, so I stopped before I bought their entire 13 studio discography (though, if I saw the first couple, I might). This one from 1979 seems to be a new tack toward more pop, less fancifully lengthy—and the poppier ones I do like a bit—and imagine they might grow on me if I gave it more repeat time. At least they resisted the temptation to “go punk.” But once again, I don’t love the arrangements and the songs are hit and miss and really, it’s just Annie Haslam’s voice that is keeping me from putting it in the “donate” box. I don’t know if the new approach led to more sales, but they kept the band together in one form or another for more records, over half a century, and they may even still be out there. Also, I do like the title, azure d’or—which is most certainly a restaurant somewhere with small plates. The cover—an abstract blue and gold liquid splash over the starkest white—looks like an ad for an antidepressant, or, okay, I guess a water filtration system. And once again I’ll offer some advice to anyone who’s thinking about venturing into the vinyl realm—you’ll need a turntable—and when buying one make sure to get one that has an automatic arm return when it gets to the end of the record! (I’m reminded of this every time I forget and let the needle sit on the end of the record for like 45 minutes!)

3.6.26

Black Licorice – Promotional Flexi-Disc

I’m always kind of amazed that flexi-discs even exist—and sound as good as they do. This is an attractive red vinyl square 7-inch with three songs at 331/3 RPM—a promo for Frankie Latina’s movie, Black Licorice, which may or may not be the current, future, or past working-title of an epic masterpiece yet to be possibly re-named, and destined to be legendary for its untraceable versions. Both meat and hell for the archivists! Printed song order may be off—but you figure it out. There’s the haunting organ-led instrumental, including ocarina solo and Mormon Tabernacle-like choir, closing credits score, here named “Black Licorice Theme”—by Didier Leplae and Joe Wong, which could be straight out of a 1970s Revisionist-Spaghetti Western. Also, the amazing “Modus Operandi”—from Frankie Latina’s 2009 movie by the same name—this also credited to Leplae and Wong, along with Cookie Johnson, who sings on the track, which is deliciously ironic as it’s the soundtrack for the scene in the movie where Cookie Johnson’s character meets her demise (along with half the characters in the film). It’s such a good upbeat, soul funk number—with a filthy saxophone, groovy flute, and then belted vocal finale—it’s kind of unfortunate that it’s not a proper 45 because it could be a dancefloor staple from now on into eternity (or as long as people are dancing). Finally, here is a real oddity, something called “Pick-Up Truck,” credited to Mark Borchardt and V. Cesaretti—which is a short, spoken-word performance by the unmistakable Mark Borchardt, backed by a sound-collage—about a… pickup truck. These promo discs probably went for free, and you nabbed one if you were lucky—and you might want to hang onto yours—they’ll eventually be bringing flexi-top-dollar—whatever that is, eventually.

2.28.26

Little Feat “Down on the Farm”

I’m not crazy about this record, but I’m warming up to it, over time, which is exactly what you want to happen, as opposed to the other way. Still, for me, it’s an uneven record, based on my feelings about each individual song each time I listen to them, so it makes since to go song by song. Aside from the frogs, “Down on the Farm” is a good opener with a nice groove. “Six Feet of Snow,” while blessed with a fine title, is too jaunty—there’s a time and a place for that, of course, but not in my evening. “Perfect Imperfection” is plenty sleazy and sounds like a questionable niteclub where you can get into trouble—a fine soul number, nearly my favorite. “Kokomo” has nice slide guitar but is a bit slight—but it’s Ray Speen’s favorite, for obvious reasons (his hometown, the one in Indiana, which is not that obvious, I guess). “Be One Now” sounds like a song that’s wanting to do something but is getting only halfway there. “Straight From the Heart” is kind of great and kind of bugs me—I guess you could say I’m on the fence, I’m torn, I’m conflicted—it’s catchy, and nice, but also sounds like the opening credits for a TV show from 1980. “Front Page News” is my favorite on the record just because of the groove—at least until it goes all synth-y—well that creates a contrast, I guess—a device, I’ll go with it. “Wake Up Dreaming” sounds like the title song for a TV show called “Wake Up Dreaming,” starring the most TV star of 1979—I sure can’t remember—wearing a hardhat, comically, and eating sandwiches. “Feel the Groove”—I don’t. I read that they were going to break up after this record, anyway, but then, sadly, Lowell George died. So that was it, at least for a while, until they reformed, and carry on, in some version, to this day. There’s a bit of a liner note tribute to LG on back—and it sounds like they considered it their last record—kind of ironic, since an earlier LP was called “The Last Record Album”—and it was, at least for a while—until the one after it.

I used to have a few Little Feat records, lost them, I guess, and now I only have this one, which I found recently. They’re hard to find in the cheap record bins, or so it seems to me (sometimes it’s just luck). I think they’ve got a lot of fans. Like the kind who hang onto their records, at least until they croak. So… I’m trying to find affordable playable copies of the records before this one, including their first live record. All of those, I believe (except the very first), have covers with art by Neon Park—great album covers. That was a solid gold decision, getting that nut involved, and sticking with him. Probably makes them even harder to acquire, now. This is one of the better ones—a half woman half duck sitting in a folding chair by a pool applying fingernail polish which is on the table next to her, along with a mint julep and riding crop. (What’s a half woman half duck? I guess you have to see it/her.) Across the pool, in the background, there’s a tiger—you’re guessing he might hungry (for woman-duck?) but then, if you look closely, he’s pretty relaxed and indeed has a glass of wine or brandy or something. He might even be yawning. The inner sleeve sports full lyrics on one side, while on the other there’s a blown-up black and white snapshot of Lowell George (one can only assume, it’s from the back) walking away, looking like he’s heading up the gravel path to Heaven. It’s grim, but with the right slant, I suppose you could find it humorous, in a gallows way.

2.27.26

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