Jack Scott “The Way I Walk” / “Midgie”

I went the first sixty-some years of my life thinking “The Way I Walk” was an Elvis Presley song—and so jarring is the realization that it’s actually “Jack Scott”—it’s caused me to doubt the existence of “The King” at all. Maybe “Elvis” is a vast conspiracy, kind of a cultural hologram—as massive, worldwide illusion—but to what end? I can’t imagine, but anyway, this possibility certainly changes things. But does it, really? Amway, Jack Scott, a Canadian, wrote and recorded “The Way I Walk”—backed up by Canadian group The Chantones. How did he get a name like Jack Scott? He changed it from Giovanni Domenico Scafone, Jr. How did he make such an “American” “hillbilly” record? He was from Windsor, Ontario, which is essentially Detroit. Anyway, it’s certainly a rock’n’roll classic—never my favorite, but it’s undeniable. It also has the distinction of a couple of outrageous cover versions—one, by The Cramps, in which they slow it down to the point of sounding psychotic—and make it into a Cramps song. The other, by Robert Gordon, is closer to the Jack Scott version, but it’s especially astounding because of the guitar by Link Wray. Taking nothing away from Jack Scott’s, which is fine. The B-side is a song called “Midgie”—in which he has the challenge of rhyming with that particular woman’s name. He does it with “silly.” Why not, I guess—you try it. Widgie? Fidgie? Jack Scott was born the same year as my mom, and this record is from 1959, the year I was conceived (apparently). Coincidence? I don’t think so, but then my dad’s name is Jack, and my middle name is Scott, for no good reason. I’ve had this 45 kicking around for years without paying it much mind—it’s on the subtly cool-looking Carlton label.

Del & Sue Smart “Singing Country Favorites”

I admit to buying this 1967 record because the cover is so awesome—I had never heard of Del & Sue Smart. It’s a posed photo of Del & Sue Smart out in the woods—trees in the foreground and background—and they’re wearing exceptionally smart, matching, western-wear—suit and dress, with diamond-shaped embellishments and some sequins, it looks like. Some shade of yellow—I would probably call it “mustard”—but maybe I’ll try to figure it out.  Maybe darker than mustard, perhaps goldenrod, or even gold, but non-metallic. Del (I assume) is holding some kind of resonator guitar—I don’t know what company—double cutaway—but I can’t see the headstock. I looked at the whole internet, and I couldn’t match it up to anything. They both have great hair—but I’m trying to keep these reviews under 1000 words. They look like real people, too, and the important thing is, for some reason, they strike me good people—maybe I’m fooled by those smiles, but I’d like to believe. The label—Somerset—I’m guessing they didn’t have deep pockets, but they did a nice job with this cover. I like how the color of the “Del & Sue Smart” letters are matched up with their suits—very effective—the art department was working overtime.

Because I was focused on the cover, it almost seemed like a bonus that the record is not only listenable—it’s quite good. A fine song selection with some serious country playing, and nice duet singing. I love duets, actually, but then, who doesn’t? Good pickin’, strummin’, and whatnot, piano, steel guitar, and the rest. But no musician credits. Ten songs, with no songwriting credits either. I’ll see if I know any of them. The first, one of the best on the record, “Just Between You and Me,” is a song by Jack Clement and was recorded by Charley Pride. I know that because I looked it up on the big computer. I suppose I could do that for all the songs, but I’m not going to—I’m only being paid pennies per word here, after all! I like “Memory Street” a lot—good song! I tend to like the slow and melancholy country songs, rather than the jaunty ones. It’s interesting listening to their solo singing parts, too—both of them have killer voices, on their own—Sue’s is full and polished, like vinegar and fine olive oil, and Del’s is a bit more quirky, not unlike mustard—and then together, voila! They blend really well, like when you make salad dressing and that mustard works as an emulsifier. “Let Me Say I Love You” is another very big favorite here. But they’re all good.

Florian ZaBach “Red Canary” / “April in Portugal”

This is a novelty record from 1953. First side, “Red Canary,” there’s a vocal singing “red canary” and then a violin impersonating a canary—I guess. It’s quite convincing. The other side, “April in Portugal,” a more straightforward version of that song, but then there’s some plucking—the violin sounding like a zither. At least that’s how I interpret it. I refer to it as a novelty record because there’s a comic element, and it’s not dance music. My dream is to find an old record that I can find nothing about on the internet. How exciting would that be? It’s not the case this time. I’m not going to paraphrase the Florian ZaBach bio—anyone is welcome to look him up, easy to find as fried eggs. I’m not going to take the ZaBach deep-dive, at this point in time. Maybe I should—maybe he made his violin sound like all kinds of things: a wood masted sailboat, people having sex in the next room, ibis migration, the trolly. He has a bunch of records and was on TV a lot—mostly in the Fifties. I don’t remember him—I guess I’m too young—but I don’t remember most of the performers I saw on TV, anyway—at least until I started seeing rock music acts, who were in retrospect, some of them, pretty bizarre. I kind of wonder if there was a time when it made sense to be somewhat more strange than the next guy, or to have a gimmick, or otherwise distinguish yourself that way. The thing I particularly like is that I ended up with this nearly 70-year-old record—it’s a 45 with the black DECCA label—says “unbreakable”—though we know that’s not exactly true. But it is somewhat indestructible—it looks like it’s been used as a frisbee, or been patching holes, or poundin’ nails—it’s weathered. But I put it on the record player and Florian ZaBach came alive, like a sci-fi hologram. The red canary perched and sang, and I was in Portugal at bit. Though it’s May.

Rod Stewart “Every Picture Tells a Story”

If YouTube keeps my personal stats on their big ’puter, and I’m sure they do, they could tell you the only video I’ve watched more than ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” is a live version of The Faces doing “Stay with Me” (the one in which some moron applies some unforgivable video effects to some of it). And that is (my opinion) that band at its best, and Rod Stewart at his best. Well, not quite—because Rod Stewart is at his best here, this record (well, if he’s made a better record, tell me about it). I consider myself a big Rod Stewart fan, even though I probably haven’t heard 90% of what he’s recorded—but just based on some Faces stuff and this record (and that “Hot Legs” video, come on). And this is one of my favorite rock records—of the many, many rock records I’ve heard. It’s also a record you can readily find, cheap, at used record stores and thrift stores—I guess they printed a lot, and for some reason the same people who buy up every, last, old “Dark Side of the Moon” LP don’t buy up this one, even though it’s equally as classic and twice as listenable.

The album cover is terrible, and if you, say, just ran across it for the first time, you might think it’s one of those cheapo retrospectives they sell at gas stations. I first heard it sometime in the Seventies—though not that close to 1971, when it came out. I suppose I’d heard the hit song “Maggie May” previously, but I didn’t know what to expect by the album—and this was a case of the first song just changing my molecules forever. I still get the same goosebumps anytime I listen to it now. And it’s not like the record, as a whole, even comes close to my favorite few songs, but it’s all at least pretty good. The Temptations hit, “(You Know) I’m Losing You” sounds a bit out of place, actually—I believe it’s essentially The Faces on that song—it’s a more rocked out version than the original—not as good. You can find The Faces playing it from the same session as “Stay with Me” (might have been a TV show). I mean, it’s okay, but it doesn’t fit that well. The Bob Dylan song, “Tomorrow is a Long Time,” is another weak link. The rest of the record is all pretty much awesome.

One of my favorite songs, Tim Hardin’s “Reason to Believe” is last, and it’s my favorite version of that song—which pretty much everyone (including me) has played—I found a list on the internet that sites nearly a hundred cover versions. “Maggie May” might be one you’re sick of, but in the context of this record, and on vinyl, and loud, you can really revisit that song. The Arthur Crudup song “That’s Alright Mama” is as high energy as anything on the record, and “Seems Like a Long Time,” by Theodore Anderson, is the most poignant song here—I’ve never heard any other version of it, but I can’t imagine it being better than this. I said poignant, goddamnit. And then that first song, the title song, “Every Picture Tells a Story”—it’s the best.

One thing that makes all these songs special is a kind of spare production—it’s clean and sparse, and relies on some individual instruments, and the singing. I’ve always liked Rod Stewart’s singing, but nowhere as much as here. A lot of the record, and certainly these first three songs, sound mostly acoustic—acoustic guitar, piano, and some really fine drums and bass. I don’t know who’s playing on what—lots of musicians are listed—but they’re all great. It’s just one of the more high-energy, subtle, underplayed but over-the-top records you’re ever gonna hear. Also, given the nature of the recording, this is one of those records that if you hear it on vinyl, and on a really fine system—well, I just can’t imagine. It’s one of those cases of, if I haven’t heard it in a while, and then someone pulls it out, on a superior sound system—that’s something that could put me right on the floor, reduced to a puddle of expletives and insufficient metaphor.