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

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

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

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

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

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

The Electric Prunes “Mass in F Minor”

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

Frank Sinatra “Nice ‘n’ Easy”

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Horn “Dream Machine”

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

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

Carly Simon “Hotcakes”

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

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

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

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

Vern Gosdin “Never My Love”

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

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

Terry Gibbs “Vibes on Velvet”

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