Keith “Daylight Savin’ Time” / “Happy Walking Around”

I have no idea where I got this 45—I guess there was a basket of them (45’s) on the top of my refrigerator years ago that someone had given me (just remembering this)—it could have been there. Anyway, “Daylight Savin’ Time” is a pleasant soul-influenced pop song. He’s all for the time change—or the songwriters are—as inane as the idea is that it will afford you “more time” with your baby, or whomever. The B-side, “Happy Walking Around,” was written by Keith, I believe (B. Keefer), and is a similarly nice pop number—this one with mild sitar-flavored overtones—and celebrates the happiness available from the little things like walking around, and loving ‘you.’ It looks like, according to the internet, it’s from 1967. Keith is still with us, and was born in Philadelphia as James Barry Keefer. I suppose the name makes sense, though he could have called himself “James” or “Jim” or “Barry” or “Keefer” or “Kiefer Sutherland” or “Strawberry Kefir” or “Keith Partridge”—the possibilities are endless! I suppose Keith was a good choice. If the police had had those onboard computers back in the Sixties, if Keith was touring with the album these songs are on, called “Out of Crank,” he might have been in for a lot of hassle from clever cops who realized his real name was Keefer (drug slang for fine marijuana) or his album advertised being out of “Crank” (drug slang for methamphetamine), or suspected that he might actually be Keith Richards traveling undercover in order to subvert the law (though if Keith Richards had been doing that, he probably wouldn’t have called himself “Keith”—more likely something like “Jim Barry.”)

Felipe “La Voz” Rodriguez “Insaciable”

I bought this record because of its amazing cover, an incredibly suave looking man with a white bowtie and a tiny moustache looking up at the ghostly image of a nude woman—either she’s marble, or a ghost, or in our imagination. Or maybe it’s all artful cutting and pasting. The background is a shade of red that is as close in nature as I’ve ever seen to French Fuchsia (or maybe I just like saying that). This record looks like it could be from the 30s, or 40s, or really any era… but the internet says it’s from 1978—which surprises me. It’s on the Marvela label, from Puerto Rico. The man is no doubt Felipe Rodriguez, whose honorary title, “La Voz,” is at least as well-earned as Sinatra’s “The Voice.” I knew nothing about him, but now I’ve read that he was popular Puerto Rican singer since the Fifties, and he died in 1999. What kind of music is this, I wondered, so I had to look that up, too—apparently it’s a style of Spanish language pop music called bolero, originating in Cuba—songs often dealing with love. (And not to be confused with the Spanish dance with the same name, Ravel’s Bolero, or the embarrassingly bad 1984 film starring Bo Derek—kind of time capsule of the worst of that cringeworthy decade.) But how effortless this fine music sounds—these nostalgic, male vocal songs—it could be the soundtrack to your (or anyone’s) reimagined love-life. The percussion is consistent, nice, and the guitar subtle and tasteful, and there is accordion on some songs. I like it a lot. I don’t understand a word of the lyrics, all in Spanish—but the title song, “Insaciable,” means insatiable—and I don’t think we’re talking about a guy still being hungry after supper, if you know what I’m sayin’. Nearly half the songs are written by Esteban Taronji, if that tells you anything… I know nothing about him—he was a Puerto Rican composer—the internet tells me less than this record. Those are all great songs.  

The Fifth Dimension “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” / “Don’tcha Hear Me Callin’ to Ya”

This may be another one of the first 45’s I owned as a lad, as it came out in 1969—from the 1968 musical Hair—and the movie Hair, which came out in 1979—though I don’t recall seeing it at the theater, at the time—but I remember it being a big deal. I’m sure this smooth, mini-medley helped me swallow my overly dry raspberry Pop Tarts, while trying not to miss the bus for grade school. This may be the first instance of me being aware of the concept of the “medley” in music (previous to this, I was appalled by the “vegetable medley” that was often a part of school lunch). I don’t remember being confused by the subtitle, “The Flesh Failures”—but I am now. Also, I was conscious of being a Capricorn, but missing Aquarian status by a mere hour. I realize now that has nothing to do with “The age of Aquarius”—though what that actually means is still beyond me. I do think there will come a time when we (humans) treat each other with love and understanding—and why not. But, it seems, we’re not there yet—it’s beyond frustrating. The B-side, “Don’tcha Hear Me Callin’ to Ya,” is a great song, written by Rudy Stevenson—not totally familiar to me, but kind of—I’m sure I listened to this when I was a kid—but I haven’t heard it non-stop since—though maybe I have heard it quite a bit—like in the dance clubs I frequented right up to the day I stopped dancing. I kind of remember seeing The Fifth Dimension on TV during this time—though they didn’t make as big an impression as the Rolling Stones, Sly and the Family Stone, or David Bowie. They did a lot of music by a variety of songwriters—I think much of it was too mature for me at that time. I always loved the label on this 45—it’s from Soul City—nice asymmetrical design, and logo of a guy singing—a high-contrast yellow and black square. The internet tells me that Johnny Rivers founded the label. Who is the guy in the picture? Perhaps my readers will inform me!

Paul Williams “Classics”

This 1977 records contains “previously released material” which means it’s not unlike a greatest hits compilation—but with Paul Williams, you wouldn’t want to say “Greatest Hits,” seeing how he’s written SO MANY great songs, and for the most part, they were hits when recorded by other artists—too many to list—but most notably Barbra Streisand, Three Dog Night, and some of the best Carpenters songs. Also interesting—in some cases he’s credited for music and lyrics, but sometimes he has a co-writer—most notably Roger Nichols (if their Wikipedia pages are correct, they were born two days apart!) For some songs, Nichols wrote the music and Williams the lyrics. The old story—which I’ve heard before, so there may be some truth to it—is that the two quickly knocked off “We’ve Only Just Begun” as a jingle for Crocker Bank—and then Richard Carpenter heard it on TV and thought it sounded like a hit—and the rest is history (or, perhaps, crockery).

Singing is not his strongest quality—he sings fine, it’s just that he sounds a little like a 70-year-old chanteuse in the cocktail lounge of a supper club—amazing, of course, but in context. The album cover is interesting—it’s all white, with Paul Williams standing off to one side, casting a shadow that extends well off the cover. I guess the idea being that his shadow is much bigger than he is—which is a little tasteless, if you think about it. Also interesting is how not dated this cover looks—I mean like it could be coming out in 2022—rather than 45 years ago! I don’t know what that means, really—as it’s a terrible album cover. I would have much preferred if they used the inner sleeve photo—which is a nice shot of PW in his study, or music room, presumably—at a piano. Hearing these songs in this context also reminds me—as a huge Carpenters fan—that even though Karen and Richard Carpenter did not write many of their best songs (three of which are on this record), it’s not just the songs. There was some real magic going on there, at the time of those recordings. I believe it was the “Wrecking Crew” for one—but also, more than anything, the depth (sadly, much of which may have been pain) in Karen Carpenter’s voice.

Lulu “To Sir with Love” / “The Boat That I Row”

It’s been fun listening to some old 45’s—don’t have a lot, maybe 100—but a few were my very first records (as a kid, in the Sixties, my parents bought me some singles before they finally let me have an album). As luck would have it, my random pick fell on this one, Lulu’s 1967 hit song from the movie, To Sir, with Love (1967)—somewhat poignant in that Sidney Poitier recently passed away. And which compelled me to look up Lulu (maybe the best single name singer name ever)—and I was happy to see she is relatively young and still out there, preforming. What’s funny is I don’t recall falling in love (when I was seven) with this song—nor it annoying me at the breakfast table—yet I must have been aware of it. It must have made an impression on me—because at some point—and continuing to the present—this became one of my favorite songs. Even now, I can’t listen to it without turning into a plate of cornmeal mush with butter and maple syrup. Maybe I saw the movie at some point and was compelled to suppress my tears, only to have them fill that inner well of sentimentality. I do distinctly remember falling in love with the song right around 1983—a couple of years in which I spent more time playing music than sleeping. The song, written by Don Black and Mark London, is certainly overblown, as is the production—but both are perfect for the emotional pop song that it is—and Lulu’s singing just gets to me every single time I hear it. A funny side note: among my meager 7 inch collection, my very favorite of all (one I haven’t gotten around to writing about yet) is a cover of “To Sir with Love”—by Lou Miami and the Kozmetix (as a B-Side). The B-Side here is a song called “The Boat That I Row,” by Neil Diamond—it’s got a nice organ part, but I find the rowboat to be an awkward and strained metaphor on every level. (A thought which leads me to think it might be a challenge to write a “good” rowboat song—that’s how these crazy things get started!)

K-Tel International “50 Children’s Favorites”

This certainly is a record that I bought solely for the cover, but maybe there’s something good, musically, on it? It’s a 1973, two-record set, from K-Tel, with 46 songs in total—so I don’t know if I’ll be able to get through them all. They are all short, of course, and so far—interminably long. Most are recognizable by title, but some not—like what is “Lazy Sailor?” Unfortunately, it’s that “What should you do with a drunken sailor” song—changed to “lazy sailor,” to protect the kids—even though the singer sounds like who they could use protection from. It’s a man who has the most annoying voice I’ve ever heard (which doesn’t mean he’s a bad person—and he’s probably not). But annoying! “Row Row Row Your Boat” of course makes me think of the psychopath in the first Dirty Harry movie making the kids sing—on the school bus he’s hijacked—but this is arguably worse. Even the songs like “To Holland”—that I’ve not heard—are unlistenable—and I don’t think I can take another one that was ingrained in my mind as a youth—like “London Bridge” or “Camp Town Races”—horrors!

The cover, though, is amazing. Sitting in a vast park, with a fountain in the background, there are five little kids and an adult in a rabbit costume, holding a book that says, “Sing Along.” The kids don’t look particularly traumatized, as they should be, given the horrifying size and expression of the rabbit head. On back, the rabbit is skipping along a path, holding hands with a little boy and a little girl. Here we can see more clearly that the rabbit is wearing a tux—it’s not a rabbit body at all. So… it’s a guy in formal wear—with a GIANT RABBIT HEAD! Maybe it’s the unchanging expression of this rabbit that’s so disturbing. I’m probably not really describing well what a picture will do instantly. I mean, it is funny—not just scary—but if you allow your imagination to run with it for just one second—it’s going to see this rabbit as a twisted, evil, pervert who shouldn’t be allowed to be hanging out with children! I wonder if any of these kids, who would be middle-aged now, remember the photo session, or if they repressed this entire memory? I suppose it’s no worse than for the child actors who were on that bus with Scorpio, in the Dirty Harry movie.

The Dell-Vikings “Come Go with Me” / “How Can I Find True Love”

The Dell-Vikings (as it says on this record) were more commonly known as the Del-Vikings, and the Del Vikings (though, as far as I know, never The Devil Kings). Their Wikipedia page admits to not having a clue to the origin of the name, but I like the theory that the group’s founders, while meeting at the library, combined the names of two famous book publishers, and voilà! They were a doo-wop band out of Pittsburgh, formed in the Fifties by some Air Force guys. This 1957 45 is on Dot Records—a pretty big label at the time. I love the Dot logo—the one with script letters—yellow “D,” red “o,” and blue “t.” First, I listened to “How Can I Find True Love,” which is enjoyable because I don’t recognize it—and it’s the slower of the two sides—a doo-wop ballad. Still, it is hard to listen to any do-wop without thinking instant audio shorthand for “The Fifties.” Of course, the song “Come Go with Me” is totally familiar—it’s like the most recognizable doo-wop song ever. I feel like I can’t even remotely listen to it objectively, since I’ve heard it in so many movies and TV shows. I can almost see the scenes. But that’s the point of listening to music in a different setting, i.e., scratchy vinyl on my cobbled-together 1970s stereo. At one point, during the sax solo in the middle, for a moment I heard the song with fresh ears and achieved an appreciation for how actually unusual this music is, and for how complex those vocal parts are. That’s always a nice moment.

Dory Previn “Reflections in a Mud Puddle / Taps Tremors and Time Steps”

I found a Dory Previn record years ago, knowing nothing about her—still haven’t written about it, as its magic number has not yet come up. It was so unique—it didn’t occur to me that she might have half a dozen records out—which I’ll now keep an eye out for. I recently found this one, from 1971—and it sounds pretty timeless. It’s not that interesting to me, musically—her melodies are all a little similar, and the instrumentation is a little jaunty and not that unusual—most of the record sounds like you could imagine it on a stage in a staid, theatrical setting—even a little stuffy, a little formal, and might include costumes and maybe even puppets. I don’t mean to be as critical as that might sound (and there’s nothing wrong with puppets)! Really, I could listen to this stuff all day—and her singing is pleasant and clear, and it stands over the top of the music. The real interesting thing here, though, is the lyrics—so it’s necessary to listen to it a few times, and even follow along with the words on the inside cover—it opens up. There are two separate “suites”—it’s essentially a “double” record—but on one disc—so a short one. Side One is “Reflections in a Mud Puddle” and Side Two is “Taps Tremors and Time Steps.”

Okay—these are some heavy-duty, nutso songs—I mean that in a good way. There is quite a lot of social observation, and social commentary, without being too blunt or obvious about it. But the songs also seem to be highly personal. It’s hard to say how much each song is about her, the actual person, and how much she’s standing in as a character—but it’s an effective approach. I hate excerpting lyrics, because it’s not really fair to the lyrics or the song, but just to get an idea of what we’re dealing with, here’s a verse to mull over: “Mine was a bloodless death/not grim/not gory/more like/Ali MacGraw’s new enzyme/detergent demise in Love Story/neat and tidy/unlike Christ’s on Friday.” Nice. The second side is subtitled: (one last dance for my father)—and it seems to be about her father’s death—and of course, their relationship, which sounds pretty troubled—told as a series of natural and aeronautical disasters. Again, it’s subtle, and poetic—like both sides of this record—all somewhat disturbing, much of it dark—but told in a way that’s poetic and beautiful. One more thing: kind of hidden right in the middle of the second side is a song called “I Dance and Dance and Smile and Smile.” Maybe the most beautiful song on the record. And it’s actually quite straightforward, lyric-wise—and it’s totally heartbreaking.

American Radio Warblers “Dancing Doll” / “My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice”

This 45 is a couple of songs by the American Radio Warblers, the “Original Feathered Stars of the Air.” They were canaries—their names: Bobby, Steve, Dick, Fred, Jim, Jerry, David, Lew, Randy, and Al. Just kidding—that’s Blood, Sweat & Tears. No, this is birds and organ, okay? Organ and birds! I have to know more, so I’ll see what I can find on ye ol’ ’nternet. They were on the radio, the Mutual Broadcasting System, weekends, out of Chicago—broadcast from 1937 to 1952, created by Arthur C. Barnett. The Warblers were ten canaries, caged, of course, who were somehow encouraged to sing in accompaniment of popular songs played on Wurlitzer organ by Preston Sellers. Or, more accurately, Sellers accompanied the birds—seeing how they are top-billed. The organ sounds like it’s coming from the “auditorium,” while we’re in the “aviary,” I guess—it’s far off—and the birds are in our face. Organ tune with the birds singing over the top—really, they’re mixed perfectly—getting the right mix is/was probably easier said than done. I imagine the show was tremendously popular, and I’m certain if it was on now, and we weren’t all distracted by all the dumb shit we’re now distracted by, it would be a hit. If people still had radios. There is a dark side, however—the entire purpose of the show was as an advertisement to sell bird seed. Though, I suppose, compared to the advertisements we have to endure, present day, that’s not dark at all, but wistfully pleasant. Fortunately, some of these shows were recorded and preserved on records, including the indestructible 45 RPM single format—one of which somehow found its way into my hands.

Sammi Smith “The Best of Sammi Smith”

I’ve said it before—but I pick out records to review using a random system. At one point I had an elaborate process using a deck of cards, which is a lot more romantic than the way I do it now: I have all my records in a spreadsheet, and I use an online random number generator. Still, it works—and the reason I do this is because otherwise, choosing would be paralyzing. Especially considering I own records by people I know—and even a couple I’ve played on. I have favorites, naturally, as well as records I’ve barely listened to. Anyway, lately, there is no one I’ve enjoyed listening to more than Sammi Smith. I only discovered her because I saw one of her LPs at the used store and I liked the cover. I’d never heard of her. Which might seem like, to her fans, someone saying they just discovered Elvis. Yet, that’s what the entire younger, and yet younger, generations have to do with all music. You’re not born knowing it. So, well, I’m just a big fan of Sammi Smith. I’m like the kind person who might travel somewhere to see her, and it would be like a religious experience—that’s music at its best. So, it’s beyond heartbreaking that she’s no longer with us. But then, heartbreak is like my default state, so I can, more or less, revel in the sadness and longing that are inherent in a lot of these classic county songs, while feeling that extra level of longing and sadness, knowing that I am not living on the same plane of existence. It helps/doesn’t help, that ghostly photo on the cover, and the fan-club intimate notes on back—Height: 5 Feet, etc., and including Favorite Food: Soft Tacos with Ortega Green Chili Sauce.

If it sounds like I’ve been drinking—it’s not so—but I just re-read what I wrote about this record the last time I listened to it—I had opened this document, and wrote kind of freely, thinking I’d post something about it, at some point. Well, what I wrote then REALLY sounds like I’d been dri9nkjing. Maybe I was—after all, if I started drinking again, I’d probably be the last to know. Anyway, in my current “sober” state, it’s quite embarrassing. Fortunately, I have to option, and the authority, to just delete the whole paragraph. And thank God. Maybe by the time I finish the review, I’ll have come to my senses and delete the above paragraph, as well. In fact, maybe I’ll delete what I’m writing right now, and start over.

According to online sources, Sammi Smith released her first LP in 1970—which was called “He’s Everywhere”—after the excellent Gene Dobbins/Jean Whitehead song by the same title that sits in the middle of Side Two on this one. Kind of a sick place to put a song that’s so emotional it nearly makes you want to collapse in a heap. Later, that LP was re-released as “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” as that was a huge hit from that album. That Kris Kristofferson song may be one of the best and most well-known songs Sammi Smith has recorded—it’s one of my favorites—and it starts out this collection. She then put out albums in 1971 and 1972, and then oddly, this “Best of” record in 1972. Is it odd to put out a best of record that soon? Not when it’s this record.

All ten songs are excellent, of course, but—besides the above— particular other favorites here are: the Janette Tooley song, “When Michael Calls” (weirdly, there’s a horror movie with that name, starring Ben Gazzara, from this same year). “Teardrops in My Heart,” by Vaughn Horton, is a great one—a heart metaphor I wouldn’t have thought of. Also, “For the Kids,” by Shel Silverstein (someone I actually was in the same room with). “Then You Walk In,” a song by David Malloy and Johnny Wilson, would be a hit for anyone—but especially this version. My very favorite on this record, though, is another Kris Kristofferson song, “I’ve Got To Have You,” which was a hit for Carly Simon—and I love Carly Simon, but this version is 100 times better. It’s probably my favorite Sammi Smith song, at this point, and that means it’s my favorite song in the world on this otherwise bleak Tuesday in February 2022.