Mickey Newbury “I Came to Hear the Music”

As I have perhaps recited ad nauseam—when trying to explain my Mickey Newbury obsession—I heard this one song on the radio, and then I’d keep an eye out for MN albums, and kept buying them until I finally bought the album with that song on it. It’s called “You Only Live Once (In A While)”—and while it’s a fine pop country song—it’s probably not quite worthy of “launched a thousand ships” status. What it has going for it, most, I think, is the clever title, which is essentially a pun. Also, that it recalls the song, “You Only Live Twice,” which Nancy Sinatra sings, and is a James Bond movie title song—one of the better ones. At any rate, whether that song warrants the type of obsession I have attributed to it, I’m not convinced, but that’s usually the way those things go. The rest of this record, from 1974, is pretty much consistent with that song and the other Mickey Newbury records I’ve found. He’s a good songwriter, and not afraid to be really quiet, sometimes. But also, there’s a hillbilly song here—with kind of bad grammar poetry—and it has a Milwaukee reference, if anyone’s keeping track. (“I told my junkie friends in Milwaukee…”) It’s called “1 X 1 Ain’t 2.” He knows his math.

The crucial thing, in a way, is that I was able to find Mickey Newbury records because they’re not ridiculously collectable and aren’t all being snatched up by international vinyl collectors on the internet. Also, he was just popular enough to have pressed enough records so they are out there somewhere. The thing that excites me the most is that I’m guessing, among all my friends, an extremely small percentage of them have ever heard of Mickey Newbury. And knowing that, out there, somewhere, are countless recording artists who have actually pressed records and put them out in the world—and I can scour the record bins for the rest of my days and not see them all, buy them all, listen to them all. Most won’t excite me, but it’s possible that my biggest music crush of all time is still waiting there, untouched, waiting for me. And maybe for two dollars. I guess I’m just excited that this, more or less, represents possibility, mystery, and the infinite.

Thelonious Monk “Misterioso (recorded on tour)”

This is a live record from 1965, eight tracks, according to the album cover info, Charlie Rouse on all songs—he is one of my favorite saxophone players ever—partly because I’ve mostly heard him playing with Thelonious Monk, and they really compliment each other. Larry Gales and Ben Riley, bass and drums on half the songs, and Butch Warren and Frank Dunlap, bass and drums, other half. Recorded East Coast, West Coast, and one song in Tokyo. Liner notes, by Harry Colomby—a nice story about giving Monk a ride home and becoming his manager—kind of touching, actually. I hope it worked out! As I’ve said before, when I first heard a version of the song “Misterioso”—I believe it was a quartet, with vibes—that changed my life—or at least the part of my life that was about listening to music. Other versions of that song are great as well, and the one here is somewhat different than I’ve heard before. They really go somewhere out there on this one—let me try to describe it. I can’t describe it, I’m too dumb. I’ll try. After the intro, the song’s established, and then there’s no piano for like half the song, just really nice trio, with bluesy saxophone, that really lures you into comfort. Then the piano comes back in and you try to follow it, of course, can’t, and it takes you on some kind of weird journey.

Besides that song, other Thelonious Monk compositions on this record: “Well, You Needn’t,” “Light Blue,” “Bemsha Swing,” and “Evidence.” Also included are versions of “I’m Gettin’ Sentimental Over You,” “All the Things You Are,” and “Honeysuckle Rose”—which the band, of course, make sound like Thelonious Monk songs. That it’s a live record matters little—there’s a bit of applause here and there, but the recording is clear and excellent—they could be playing in my apartment if there was enough room. It’s hard to write about something that’s your favorite thing—the bigger the hyperbole gets, the less convincing it sounds. I’ll tell anyone not sick of listening, again, that not only is Monk my favorite musician, he’s my favorite artist, period—and really, no one is even close. I’m guessing not everyone is as fond of him, as his style can sound unusual and eccentric—but in this case, unlike certain films, writing, and visual arts that I’ll admit are “not for everybody,” I really believe that anyone can come around to this music by listening to it and really concentrating on it. What you hear in the music is a direct impression of the workings of Monk’s brain—I don’t know if you get that so profoundly from any other artist. I guess it can be a little scary. We are lucky to live in a time after films were made of him playing live, and still exist, and you can actually watch quite a bit for free, on the internet—and that is also a good way to try to understand him, figure out what he’s doing, or just see and hear something incredibly beautiful.

Bobby and the Midnites

This record, which either someone gave me, or I bought because of the cover, might have the distinction, at this point in time, of being my least favorite record that I own. Not for long. But at least it’s interesting to listen to it to try to figure out why it’s so disagreeable to me. They’re a hot band, they can play. Even so, I really don’t think any of the songs would grow on me if, say, I forced myself to listen to it every Friday night while I start the weekend with a fatty and a six-pack. One of these songs—I swear—kind of transported me to a bloated rock arena, normally used for sports, with several thousand rock fans, drunk, high, screaming, old, cobwebs—and stale, spilled beer, cigarette permeated garments, a light show, terrible sound, ear-numbing volume. I mean, there are worse places in the world—like minefields and jobs, but not many. I just watched a documentary about Bob Weir, and he’s still a young guy—I enjoyed it, I liked him. I’m one of those people who keep trying—because people I respect are fanatics—to come around to the Grateful Dead—and I keep failing, for the most part. This record, however, while I can certainly understand why some people might like it, is exactly around the other side of the Earth from what I like. I do like the album cover, a drawing of a black cat with one eye missing. It’s a cute cat. I love black cats. Or maybe it’s winking—though cat’s don’t wink. They also don’t play bass, so who knows.

Tommy Roe “Sweet Pea”

Tommy Roe was one of the first recording artists I bought records by, 45s, when I was in grade school. I was a bubblegum fan. His 1970 retrospective (12 in a Roe) was one of the first LPs I purchased (or got my parents to buy for me)—and I’ll eventually write about that, at length (the reader can hardly wait)—but because of the weird format of that album (interviews between songs) I had the impression that Tommy Roe was an old dude, at death’s door—and only now do I see he was born in 1942, so was not even yet 30 by that time! I guess that’s one reason I felt no need to search out more Tommy Roe, like this LP from 1966. It starts out with one of my favorites, “Hooray for Hazel,” which has always made me fond of that name, and in particular the one Hazel I ever met, who happened to save my life once (but that’s another story). This record also features “Sweet Pea,” another favorite, which if I recall correctly, was the song Samantha Morton was dancing to in the very best moment of the film version of Jesus’ Son. Most of these songs are by Tommy Roe, and are very good, including “Everybody” and “Sheila.” His covers are not as good—”The Folk Singer” is a stone-cold drag. “Under My Thumb” is so-so, and it’s interesting he does that song because a few of his songs are about conquering and destroying women on the battlefield of love—including “Hooray for Hazel” and “Party Girl”—which both have some lyrics, some verses, that you have to just take as humorous—if you don’t want to cringe to death. Apparently, even this LP is a retrospective—I guess he was, first, a singles artist, and the front cover lists his name and every song on the record—in four different font sizes and colors—along with an oddly unflattering photo. They should have used the much cooler b&w photo of him on the back, in a classic pose, touching a tree, the other hand on his belt, striped trousers, and his guitar sitting there in the weeds.

Crosby, Stills & Nash “Replay”

There is probably someone out there who has kept track, in their mind, of the records made by David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash (and Neil Young, etc.)—probably the same genius who can tell you all the versions of the Byrds. I guess if you’re a big enough fan, it’s effortless, and if you’re not, it’s like untangling a box of audio cords. Personally, I can’t keep track, even, of people’s names—trying to remember if it’s Steven or Stephen, Neil or Neal, Gram or Graham or Graeme, etc.—it’s a nightmare! Because you want spell people’s names correctly, especially when you’re asking them for money! I was just thinking about all the bands who are named after people in the band. There are a lot. I would like to pass a law that says, unless you are a single performer, you can’t name your band after your name—you have to come up with a band name. I think it’s the most fun part of starting a band, after all—I don’t know why people would want to deprive themselves of that, unless either their egos are that big, or they’re just really unimaginative. And I know these three guys are creative—they are all excellent songwriters, musicians, and singers. I guess this record is a retrospective of sorts—I just picked it up for a $1.98—which, if they, or the record company are cashing in, why not—more records benefit all of us—if the music is good. Though, I’ve never been a fan of the song “Love the One You’re With,” which always felt like either stating the obvious, or some hippie predator bullshit. The song “Cathedral” is on here, which is one that always gave me the chills of joy and creep-out. I also dig the the drawing/painting of the band on the front cover, so I looked to see if there was a credit for it—it’s by Joni Mitchell! And finally, there’s a song about whales, called “To the Last Whale.” Which is nice (I mean, (heart) whales!)—plus, it gave me an idea. Instead of Crosby, Stills & Nash, they could have called their band: The Last Whale. See how easy that was?

Top Hit Club of America, Inc. “Top Hit Tunes”

This is a real oddball record, definitely the kind I like to buy as long as it’s not over a few dollars. I have no idea where it came from or when, and I could slave over a hot internet all afternoon and uncover its secrets, but I’m not going to—I’m not trying to sell it or archive it—I’m just enjoying it the way you could really enjoy the world before “the i” turned everyone into a cursed expert. It’s actually one of those albums that’s worth buying for the cover alone (if you do that) to hang in your rec-room next to the beer signs. There’s a really nice, large color photo of a blond woman dancing in front of a blurry jukebox. In big yellow font it says, “Top Hit Club of America, Inc.” Absolutely no other info on the cover (the back is blank). The blue label with silver print says, “Top Hit Tunes,” and then the song titles and performers of each. No writing credits. As far as I can tell, these are hit songs performed by artists other than those who made them hits (though it’s possible there are exceptions—I don’t know these artists, and I don’t know many of the songs). Some of the highlights: “Never On Sunday”—recorded by “everyone”—but here by a group called “The Tonalaires”—who? You’ve heard “Over the Rainbow”—but by The King Tones? When I was a lad, I had a 45 of “Hot Rod Lincoln”—I don’t remember who by, but it was definitely not this version—by Bill Wooley—which is better. I could go on, but here’s a few of the better names for musical artists I’ve not before heard of: The Swivel Hips, The Three Phases, Tony Bender & The Enemies, Giggles Ford, Brother Ray, and The Beanie Topps, among others. Then, the weirdest thing, the second half of Side B, six whole songs, are all Hawaiian tunes by Jimmy Luau & His Hilo Islanders! I’m not making this up. What’s crazy, there are twelve songs on each side, and I timed the entire album, 55 minutes! So it’s essentially a double album on a single disc. It shouldn’t even work, yet it plays perfectly, sounds great, is highly entertaining, and also, fairly mysterious.

Deodato “Very Together”

Eumir Deodato was cranking out the records in the Seventies—he strikes me as a guy who a lot of music came from his direction all the time. Maybe I’m wrong. I have one other—Prelude, from 1973, which I like better than this, but it’s close. This is from 1976. It starts out with “Peter Gunn theme,” which doesn’t thrill me—it’s an interesting version, but it’s hard to get past the familiarity of that tune. In my next lifetime, maybe I’ll warm up to it again. The next three songs on the first side are all great, and all Deodato compositions, as are the best two songs on the second side—one I particularly like, called “Juanita,” and one called “Univac Loves You.” Ha! There’s also an odd cover of “I Shot the Sheriff,” and a rendition of “Theme from Star Trek,” which I just put on while watching the opening of Star Trek (the original, it’s on every night at 7pm). Actually, this is an excellent record, and I’ve got to keep it in mind if I ever have a party ever again. Great party record! Also, probably good for cooking, painting the apartment, and making out. The title, “Very Together” strikes me as funny. Two simple words that sound awkward when combined… though maybe it’s some 1970s hipster expression I forgot or just never got. There is a photo of two bigger than life-size hands on the cover that are placed over an object that, for the life of me, I can’t identify. It’s probably obvious—maybe someone will fill me in. On the back is headshot of, I presume, Deodato that’s so huge you could imagine landing the LEM in one of his pores. I’ve got to remember to grab any more records I see by him—the two I have are excellent. They offer a unique and compelling soundtrack to anything worth gluing your eyeballs to.

Environments “Disc 1”

This record, which came out in 1969, was the first of the Environments LPs from Syntonic Research, Inc.—there were more editions throughout the 1970s. I suppose this was around the time when being a hi-fi geek was an increasingly accepted malady among obsessive, deep-pocketed weirdos. I had a couple of these records in the the late Seventies, when I bought my first expensive stereo (costly—translated to current dollars, it would be like buying a nice car). The Environments catalog is varied and eccentric (there are a few I’d like to pick up, like the “Be-In” and one of the thunderstorms, and the blizzard). Most were field recordings, but they were also doing experimentation with computer manipulation to create more optimum experiences—and if you wanted to get into the reading and research, you might find that fascinating. Side One of this record is the “Psychologically Ultimate Seashore,” and Side Two is “Optimum Aviary.” There are a lot of notes on the back and inside cover about production, hi-fi care, playback instruction, and the potential ways these records will enhance your life, wellbeing, work, sex life—and by extension, the happiness of your neighbors, pets, and perhaps even the spectral beings that lurk in the unknown dimensions of your current home.

Minnie Riperton “Stay in Love: A Romantic Fantasy Set to Music”

This record starts out with a full-blown disco sound (it was the disco years), then settles back into a more mellow soul sound. Minnie Riperton’s singing is pretty amazing. The songs here are by her and Richard Rudolph, some with a few with co-writers—including Stevie Wonder. Romantic love songs, most of them pretty steamy. When this came out I was 17 and really into punk rock—this would not have been my thing. I still love punk rock—I just don’t listen to it that much. I can’t remember the last time I put on the Sex Pistols LP that came out later the same year as this. It’s now a cold Friday night in 2021, “The Future.” I feel like someone just beat me up—I wouldn’t be going out dancing if I could—but this record both cheers me up and makes me sad, on so many levels. Who could ask for more? It’s Chinatown.

Also, this is one of the more intriguing album covers I’ve come across recently (though not quite the knockout of 1974’s “Perfect Angel”). On the front, Minnie Riperton is reclining on a huge, burgundy sofa—the kind with a carved wooden base, and big rounded, contoured arms, and that kind of scratchy fabric—a sofa I most identify with the grandparents’ house—or maybe one in disrepair at a rental apartment, because no one wanted to move it. Above it, in a minimal frame on the wall, is the back album cover image—which is MR embracing a person in a shiny gray shirt—in front of the sofa. But on the back cover, in the framed picture is the front album cover image. Then, on the inside cover, MR, same dress, is sitting on one end of the same sofa, the cushions in disarray. No photo on the wall. Interpret meaning as you will, however—one more twist. There is a book in each of the photos, barely visible—on the front, it’s beneath her hands; on the inside, it’s on one of the sofa arms; and on back, it’s peeking out from behind the embracing couple. What is this book? The Holy Bible, perhaps? Or maybe a diary, or journal. Or maybe something else…

Tammy Wynette “The Ways to Love a Man”

This was maybe Tammy Wynette’s seventh or so LP, released in 1970. The cover is a dramatic, larger than life-size portrait, her head leaning forward as if she’s about to kiss you. I’m sure the epic decision-makers at Epic Records were thinking “sex sells”—as its title could be misconstrued to be all about sex, after all—rather than heartbreak and forgiveness, acceptance, Jesus, and supper. As I’ve told everyone who will listen, I didn’t care for Tammy Wynette when I was growing up, and at the county fair, I’d skip her concert for the demolition derby. Of course, now, I love her, and I’d find a way to see her if I could—and the demolition derby. Every song on this record sounds like a country classic—it’s produced by Billy Sherrill, who’s the best. There’s one song after another that you can imagine crying in your beer to—those really quiet verses that then explode into a line that’s sung from the deepest depths, and the stomach, the soul, and gives you goosebumps. Great songs, some by Billy Sherrill, some by George Jones and Tammy, and a few by others. I’ve been writing about whatever old vinyl records I’ve been kicking around, for 15 years now, and somehow my “random system” hasn’t picked out a Tammy Wynette LP before this, even though I own a half-dozen. Well, more to come, I’m sure, from down there at the end of the alphabet, lonely street, and the end of the bar.