Smith “A Group Called Smith”

I bought this dirty old record because I never heard of “Smith” or their first LP, “A Group Called Smith” (1969) so now was my chance—and I like the cover—it’s all faded out, like it was sitting in someone’s window in the sun since 1969. The photo on the cover is the band (Smith), five young people in various degrees of hippie-look, standing in front a shack (could be the future home of the Unabomber, but there’s a lot of shacks out there). One guy is almost hidden in the shadows, one guy has cowboy hat and boots, a couple of mustaches, some white pants, one guy has lost his shoes, and a little closer to us, a beautiful and tough looking woman with a lot of hair and a paisley shirt. In other words, a band, c.1969. The woman is Gayle McCormick, and the best songs are the ones she sings—she’s got a voice that could start spontaneous brush fires out there in hippie-ville. I’m not going to type the other names, which all sound like fictional versions of famous people—but maybe they should have been the famous ones, seeing how this hot record is right where you want it to be. (My internet tells me they only released one more—even though they had some hits). The hit, here, being a cover of The Shirelles’ “Baby, It’s You”—and this is a great version. All the songs are covers, and include The Youngbloods’ “Let’s Get Together,” a couple of Rolling Stones numbers, including a heavy-duty version of “Let’s Spend the Night Together” that I prefer to the Stones. Their heavy, soulful version of The Zombies’ “Tell Them No” really comes to life. Also fine is “I’ll Hold Out My Hand” (The Clique song) rounds out the album on a high note. I could do some digging to try to find out what happened to the band, but I’m not going to just now. I could guess: internal stuff (it’s a band, after all). With two or three really good lead singers—but you only need one. Love triangle, quadrangle, etc. Lugging around that Hammond that weighs as much as a Volkswagen. Also, maybe, the pressure for bands, in this era, to write their own material, no matter how much they weren’t up to it (one of the reasons why we’re cursed with half a century of truckloads of mediocre “rock’n’roll music”) rather than cherry-picking the best songs out there and making them better, as with earlier traditions of popular music. But I’m just, as the man says, speculatin’ here.

Sammi Smith “Help Me Make It Through the Night”

Not long ago, a year or two—who can keep track of time—I had never heard of Sammi Smith—believe it or else. Had I heard the name, I might have thought it was the young English singer, or the old English brewery. I came across one of her later albums and bought it out of curiosity—and it was great, so I bought a few others, including this, her first LP (another one from the magical year, 1970), which was originally titled “He’s Everywhere,” but changed, I guess, when her version of the Kris Kristofferson song, “Help Me Make It Through the Night” became a hit. It’s a great song, and this is my favorite version of it I’ve ever heard. I like every song on this record—there are some country classics—other standouts include: “Saunders’ Ferry Lane,” “There He Goes,” “With Pen in Hand,” “Lonely Street,” “He’s Everywhere”—hell, I may as well just say “all of them”—and I guess I already did. Sammi Smith’s singing is soulful and deep—I like her voice as much as any country singer I’ve ever heard. She is considered part of the “Outlaw Country” singers—though you wouldn’t necessarily make that association with this record. Maybe it’s the two Kris Kristofferson songs, including “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down”—with its famous line: “And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had one more for dessert.” I love that song, and this is, by far, my favorite version of it.

The album cover is low-budget looking—I wonder what the original version looked like. If I see it, I’ll buy that one, too—that’s how much I like this record. There are liner notes by Eddie Rabbitt, who hadn’t discovered the “shift” key, but that’s okay, it’s poetry—actually a kind of beautiful love poem for Sammi. Also liner notes by Kris Kristofferson who, being a Rhodes scholar, uses proper punctuation, and is also a lot more eloquent than my clumsy review, here. I should probably just retype the whole thing he wrote, but I’ll leave you to discover it—if you find this record (it shouldn’t be hard—it sold a lot of copies—and used country records are undervalued). Of course, if you already know this record, you’re lucky. I’m not in the habit, anymore, of spewing reckless hyperbole, since I don’t get paid by the adjective, so when I say that, at this moment in time, this is the record that finds its way to my turntable more than any others, I mean it. If you’re only going to own one country record (that’s sad, but whatever) this is the one. It breaks my heart to know that Sammi Smith passed away (at the age I am now) back on the exact date I played my last live show (ended with a John Prine song) (okay, I’m not sure if it was the exact date, but it wouldn’t surprise me, considering the prankster writing this uncanny script). Sorry to dwell so much on Me, but I’m just trying to figure out why I have such a visceral reaction to this record. But I’m sure it’s not just me. We’ve all had broken hearts—some just more broken then others. Hopefully there’s more to life than that, but here’s your soundtrack for heartbreak breakfast, heartbreak lunch, and heartbreak late-night vigil.

Carole King “Writer”

I’m a big fan of Carole King’s “Tapestry” album, which came out the year after this one, but I was surprised to see this was her first. No cat on the cover, but there is an odd, black and white photo of her in front of leafless trees, wearing a cool, psychedelic dress that’s been colorized, and then a half cartoon rainbow either leading to her head or away from it—I’ll let you decide. I know she was already a successful songwriter and all, and this record sounds, to me, like a record by someone who has been making records for years (I mean that in a good way). I guess she would’ve been pushing 30 when this came out in 1970, so it makes sense. “No Easy Way Down”—you’ve heard that one, it’s a classic song. The songs are by Carole King and Gerry Goffin. “Goin’ Back” is a great song—I know it from Nils Lofgren’s album, “Nils Lofgren” (1975)—which is one of my favorite records ever—I had no idea it was a cover. I like this version, here, better, actually. James Taylor is singing backup vocals on it, and it’s funny, he sounds just like James Taylor. There’s a song called “Eventually”—it’s not as good as Bernie and the Invisibles song by the same name, but then nothing is. It’s a fine song, maybe my favorite on the record. “Sweet Sweetheart” is a sweet song, and so is “Up On the Roof”—which kind of leads directly to the all-season version (next record), “You’ve Got a Friend.”

I aways make a special note of albums that come out in 1970 because I was 10 years old—just about the optimum age for popular music sometimes called “rock” or “something-rock” or “rock and something.” It was quite a year for music. It was the first year I bought—or got my parents to buy me—albums (it was 45s previous to that)—and the two I first owned (not sure which one was first) were Tommy Roe’s “12 in a Roe” and “The Partridge Family Album”—and it’s funny—both records had songs that inspired me to indulge my first and most intense love of my life—and subsequent broken heart. (Never been the same.) Those songs are love pop classics that still choke me up to this day. Also funny, the loose but incredibly tight group of studio musicians known as the “Wrecking Crew” played on both of those records—one reason why they were, and remain, great albums. You could say I got lucky. In a way, I guess, as well, I was spoiled, which is maybe why I’m such an exacting critic to this day. This 1970 effort is also very good. If I ever get to be an actual DJ someday, maybe I’ll do stuff like play sets where the records all came out in the same year. 1970 might win.

Cham-Ber Huang (Harmonica 10-inch)

It’s no secret that I’ve expressed the desire that all harmonicas be melted down and formed into a giant hammer that would then be used to smash the rest of the harmonicas. And I used to play one! I’m probably a little too hard on the instrument, it’s not its fault—it’s abuse by would-be harmonicists that’s the problem. But that didn’t stop me from acquiring this harmonica record. The cover is a handsome, Asian-looking man playing a harmonica—it’s a big one—Hohner “Professional-something.” Almost all of the printing on the record is, I believe, Chinese, so I can’t read it—except for the Chinese Record Company address and a product number: M-2681. Also, there is a scotch-taped translation of the tracks, which includes compositions by J.S. Bach, F. Couperin, Cham-Ber Huang, G. Ph. Telemann, B. Bartok, and G. Enesco. Some names I’m seeing for the first time along with the heavy-hitters. The product number is kind of the magic key, as far as the internet is concerned—so I was able to determine the guy’s name is Cham-Ber Huang. He’s from Shanghai—got ahold of a harmonica as a lad and eventually became a world-class virtuoso. He came to the USA in 1950—when he changed his name to Cham-Ber (a reference to “chamber” music). He also worked for Hohner and developed some of their newer instruments of pain. I’m just kidding, now, because I enjoy this record immensely. First of all, it’s a 10-inch, which I love. It’s not solo, entirely—there is minimal accompaniment—unless dude is a wizard—which I suppose is a possibility. Since I can read no credits, I don’t know—it sounds like some accordion, somewhere, and maybe a cello, and maybe a man screaming in pain. More jokes. No, really, it’s a lovely record. My favorite track is by Cham-Ber Huang, “Romance for Harmonica,” which sounds like it could be the soundtrack for a short, silent film about a guy finding a harmonica and discovering that it’s a living, breathing entity, with feelings.