Vikki Carr “Ms. America”

Another record from my favorite year, 1973, which I didn’t listen to in 1973. Though, of course, I heard a lot of these songs on the kitchen radio in the morning while eating my Pop Tarts and steeling myself for another brutal day of junior high. I’m talking about “Danny’s Song” (it’s the “Even though he ain’t got money/I’m so in love with you honey” song—never knew the name of it)—though I most likely heard the the Loggins and Messina or Anne Murray version. This version is certainly better than my memory of it—maybe it’s just better. “Killing Me Softly with His Song,” however, sounds almost exactly like I remember, from hearing it thousands of times—though I’m probably remembering the Roberta Flack version—or perhaps the Anne Murray version. Vikki Carr, as one might guess, is a stage name, and a good one. I’m not sure if you went over to her house (which is a lovely dream) you’d address her as Florencia Bisenta de Casillas-Martínez Cardona, or not. She’s Mexican American, born in El Paso, and has a fascinating discography—I guess she’s sold more Spanish language records, yet she’s definitely a household name in English—who hasn’t heard of Vikki Carr? I don’t think my parents had any of her records—but they would have fit in with the Streisand and the Bacharach. The other really familiar one on this record is “Neither One of Us,.” which was a Gladys Knight & the Pips hit—no doubt the one I’m remembering—a great song. My other favorites are, the emotional ballad “Baby Don’t Walk Out On Me,” and “I Would Be Your Friend” (which creates a holographic image of David Cassidy, for some reason). Also, the low-key “Somebody Loves You,” in which she throws in a little Spanish, and also a talking part—which I always love, and she also does in “We Didn’t Know The Time of Day”—a kind of sad one. The album cover is an odd shade of brown that you don’t usually see used for things you’re not going to eat (i.e. chocolate), but most of the front is taken up by a large photo of Vikki Carr standing in front of some dark draperies—she’s wearing matching tan suede jacket and pants, and a pink collared shirt. She’s also got a gold chain that would suit a rapper, and from what I can see of it, an insanely intricate brown leather belt. There may be no more pleasing color combo than brown and pink, so I love this cover. Her suede suit, with large pockets and buttons, might have been considered dated in the years between then and now—written off as tacky, even. But if you showed up somewhere today wearing that, people would be drooling all over it.

Skeeter Davis “I Can’t Believe That It’s All Over”

Ask me how many Skeeter Davis records I have—I can’t tell you—I really have no idea. I know I don’t have them all. And I still haven’t heard one I don’t love. This one is no exception—another great record from Skeeter Davis. It feels almost contemporary, with that really flimsy RCA vinyl and futuristic logo. Yet it’s from 1973, which is getting on near half a century—hard to believe. It looks like (depending on the accuracy of online discography) this record was near the end of her reign of putting out two albums a year—stretching back before 1960. The picture of her on the cover looks different than any other picture I’ve seen of her—yet still unmistakably her, and quite lovely. The liner notes on the back are by Skeeter, written by hand—it’s so convincing looking that I had to look really close—She wouldn’t have written personal notes on each record, would she? Of course not. But it definitely gets the idea across that this is an intimate message—and long, too—two pages! She talks about her first ever performance, in Cincinnati when she was in first grade, and how she knew from that point how important the applause was to her. And then, how she was thinking of quitting singing, but here’s another record. Just reading this personal note about quitting kind of made me feel funny in my stomach—and I know she hasn’t been with us for years and years now—but then… I guess she is. Every time I put on one of her records, it’s like she’s right here in the room. And that’s not the case with everyone, with every singer, to be sure (and not even with every song, by her). It’s partly the songs, and partly the recording, and a lot her voice and whatever it is about her spirit that appeals to me so much. Ten fine songs on this record—but particularly appealing to me are: the title song, a classic country song by Ben Peters (one of those where she talks… I love that). And there’s a really nice version of the Jackson 5 hit, “I’ll Be There.” Also, “Stay Awhile with Me,” is by Skeeter and Linda Palmer, very fine. My favorite on the record is: “It Really Doesn’t Matter at All,” a melancholy and beautiful song by Helen Cornelius. It really is a good one, you’ll have to hear it.

Simon & Garfunkel “Bridge over Troubled Water”

I guess I was never a huge fan of Simon & Garfunkel, really, and I don’t know that much about them, considering their popularity and fame. It’s interesting looking some stuff up now… I guess I thought of them as a Seventies band, yet this record from 1970 was their last (not counting like a hundred compilations and boxsets, etc., you know, cashing in). I feel like I know more about each of them from their movie appearances, especially Art Garfunkel’s really interesting film roles. I was almost too young for them—I didn’t realize they played together even in the Fifties—if the first paragraph of their Wikipedia is accurate (and it might not be). It says they were called “Tom & Jerry”—but we all know Tom & Jerry is a cartoon with a cat and, I think, a raccoon. And/or also a cocktail consisting of scotch, branch water, and squid ink. The album cover plays up their height disparity, which I also always thought was manufactured—and the internet (great for celebrity height stats!) tells us neither of them played for the Knicks. But they are actually pretty close in height, if you don’t count Garfunkel’s perm, in which case there is a big difference. Paul Simon and Chevy Chase, however, are a full foot apart, which they play up in the video, “You Can Call Me Al”—which has the distinction of being my least favorite music video EVER. I really do hate that thing with a passion—maybe even more so because they could have done it as a fake ventriloquist act, which would have been brilliant, but they totally missed the boat.

I’m getting sidetracked. In a way, it doesn’t surprise me that they broke up after this record because it’s really kind of bad. I’ve never listened to it in its entirety before now. The very famous and overplayed title song is way overblown and doesn’t measure up to that great, earlier “Sound of Silence” stuff. I feel like I was aware of “The Boxer,” by name, forever, and only now put it together with that really annoying “Lie-la-lie” song, which I’ve always hated—okay, so one more mystery solved. I guess I also never knew that the really annoying “I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail” song is called “El Condor Pasa”—which is one they stole and turned into an earworm. I also didn’t realize that Paul Simon has all the songwriting credits, and they are both almost the same age (80 this year). Someone could make a great movie—maybe even starring them, at 80—about a Sixties folk duo—a tall guy who got all the women and a short guy who got all the royalties, and now lives in a palatial LA mansion while the other guy is homeless and single. They’ve been mortal enemies for years, but hook up again, over some kind of crisis where they actually help each other, somehow. Heartwarming!

Still getting sidetracked. So, I actually am a huge fan of Simon & Garfunkel, to some degree, as I love the songs that are in “The Graduate” (which could be a rare case of a movie and the songs featured in it being nearly of equal importance to each other—i.e., neither one would be quite what it is without the other). I never get tired of either that movie or those songs. I did have a 45 of “Mrs. Robinson” in the Sixties, and I also had a 45 of “Cecilia”—from this record, which I loved and played to death. I barely remembered that “The Only Living Boy in New York” was on the other side (I think), but I like that song as well—it’s my favorite number on this album. A funny thing is that I was writing something recently (OK, a novel) in which I talk about the song “Cecilia” and how I was always confused and disturbed by something in the lyrics. I’m not going into it now, for God’s sake, I already suffered though that once (it’s totally convoluted), but if I ever finish and publish that novel, my obsessive observations will see the light of day and be ignored by billions. Going on and on here, sorry—I promised to make these reviews shorter. But I’m still thinking about that movie—I doubt if those two guys would act in it, but who could we cast? I’m thinking Tom Waits and John Lurie—who wouldn’t want to see them together in a movie again? What is it called? I always like to have at least a working title. Maybe, “Tom & Lurie.” Yeah, that’s pretty good—almost playing themselves—two of the funniest men on Earth. I’ll get started on the screenplay. I keep trying to get out of the movie business, but they keep pulling me back in!

Barry White “Can’t Get Enough”

I didn’t listen to Barry White back when this record came out—if I knew about him, I ignored him—maybe thinking it was too commercial? I don’t remember. This record is from 1974, the year I first smoked marijuana—though, at that time I was more inclined to listen to slightly pretentious German prog-rock. Anyway, a few years back I bought one of his early records and I loved it—so I bought a few more, including this one—though I’m not sure I listened to this one until now. I’m not crazy about the drum sound, right off—it sounds like there was something odd with the production. Or it could be something wrong with my stereo—that’s a distinct possibility, so the jury’s still out, as they say. It might just be a version of disco style production—some of the more extreme disco records, if you listen to them now, it sounds like people lost their minds (which they did, more or less). Anyway, it’s not that bad—it’s just on a few songs the snare drum sounds like someone hitting a prefab garden shed with a rubber hose. The rest of the instrumentation sounds good, anyway, including the vocals. The last song on Side One, “I Can’t Believe You Love Me,” is pretty much a Barry White masterpiece—it’s ten minutes, but I could listen for ten hours. Side Two starts out with “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe,” which is quite familiar—it must have been a hit—it’s a great song. There are only seven tracks on the record, and two of them are the brief, instrumental, “Mellow Mood” that opens and closes the record. I like the idea—but its brevity doesn’t lend itself to a good “make out record”—unless you work fast—since the whole thing is barely a half hour. There’s enough unmolested vinyl, next to the label, on each side, to park your car and still leave space for your ex-wives. I wouldn’t mind if there were only two songs total, as Barry White gets the most out of repetition and laying back—I could listen to him just do one of his intros for an hour. But I’m just wishing there was a little more, here, all in all. Anyway, it’s a fine record, and seriously worth buying for the great album cover, alone, which is a painting by Al Harper. There are four renditions of Barry White, from the neck up, different sizes—one singing (eyes closed), one looking off at the horizon, one looking at the lady to your right, and one looking directly at you. They are fine portraits, but take on a kitschy quality, presented as they are in a kind of stylized collage with a lot of circles of many shades of blue. It feels dated but wonderful—one of my favorite album covers in recent memory. I wonder what the original painting would cost you?

David Crosby “If I Could Only Remember My Name”

As I’ve said before, it’s a lot more fun to write about stuff you don’t like than stuff you love. It’s a lot easier to write about stuff you’re making fun of. It’s hardest to write about things you love—that reverence mode kind of freezes you up, and there are only so many ways to say “awesome” and “awesome” isn’t one of them. Plus, when you sound like a cheerleader, a blurb writer, a publicist, or an advertising copywriter, no one listens, and why should they? So, I was thinking it was going to be fun to write about this David Crosby record—based on the title, which is funny already, and giant photos of his head on the front and back cover—you know, that 1971 maximum hair volume, and admittedly great moustache. The songs are all more or less his (plus some credits to some guests on this record). The cover opens up to faux-photo album of two dozen familiar names—most of the Dead and the Airplane, Joni, Nash, Young, etc. Also, David Geffen looking like he’s just fallen into a swimming pool. Also, interesting to me, a young woman with the name “Laura Allen”—who looks a lot like Laura Allan—I have a solo record of hers, with Paul Horn, where she plays zither—which I haven’t written about yet. I’m guessing someone in this crowd brought along something stronger than Diet Sprite. And that album cover—no words, text, whatsoever—just a grainy double exposure of what I presume is a sunset (West Coast) over water, and face (presumedly Crosby) blown up so big it looks like you could live in his right nostril and your ex-wife could life in his left and everything would be more or less cool.

But as soon as I put the record on, I was mesmerized to such an extent that I had to lie down to listen to it. For some reason, the impression you get is that all of the musicians were performing while lying down—and while that might be impossible with some (piano, for instance) I wonder if there isn’t something to that. This is one of the more mellow, laid back, trance-inducing things I’ve heard in a while. I don’t think I was sleeping, but when it got to the end of Side One, I was unable to take the needle off, and somehow it played the other side without me turning it over! After a little dinner, and a palate cleanser (Skeeter Davis, Richard Harris, and more sleep), I put it on again, and it’s like an entirely different record! So it’s clear to me that I’m enjoying this album much like one would, buying it new in 1971, as a fan. You go through this phase where you don’t want to do anything but put it on once again. You come home from school and put it on. It’s a relationship. Together, your brain and the vinyl transform, blah blah, all of that. Of course, when I was eleven, I think this might have been too subtle for me, my favorites being Alice Cooper, Sweet, Mott the Hoople, and so forth. There’s a song that sounds like it could be Crazy Horse, and one that could be an obscure CSN or CSNY track. And then one… who’s playing that steel guitar?—nice. Then one that sounds like it would be at home at a Renaissance faire. And then a song that sounds like nothing else on the record and is quite beautiful—is that autoharp? (my first instrument—so I’m partial to it). Another beautiful one with some serious piano—Gregg Rolie, perhaps? And then a couple that sound a little too much like blind monks living underground after the nuclear holocaust, but that’s okay, it rounds out what I’d have to say is a seriously awesome record.