Carly Simon “Anticipation”

I’m sure I heard the song “Anticipation” on the AM radio when I was 12 or so—over breakfast with my parents while eating the oats out of my Lucky Charms (saving the marshmallows for last)—and I probably had conflicted feelings, because it’s an undeniable pop-song that no one can resist, really—and only maybe rebel against in retrospect. I’m guessing it gave me goose bumps and made me feel in love—though I don’t remember associating it with the girls I had crushes on the way I did with Tommy Roe, Archies, and Partridge Family songs—but maybe because that was earlier—and this coincided with the beginning of adulthood (like I said, age 12). It was another song I first owned on vinyl via the “Superstars of the 70’s” record I bought via the TV, which was the first (and sometimes only) place I heard a lot of music during that time. “Anticipation” started off side 4 (of 8) and was followed by The Guess Who, Todd Rundgren, etc. Side 4 then ended with “Tumbling Dice”—a song that became my favorite song of all time, for a while (like 50 years). Anyway, I then followed Carly Simon’s career from a distance, I suppose, being an avid Rolling Stone reader—and I probably got turned off due to her immense popularity, and me exploring different musical directions. And of course, there was that Heinz Ketchup commercial, which got burned into your memory for all-time if you watched TV in the Seventies (I watched way, way too much). I think I probably loved that commercial and hated it. Maybe it was even the reason I for my love/hate relationship with ketchup.

I bought an odd Carly Simon record a couple of years ago, just because it wasn’t one I recognized, and I picked up this one, from 1971, recently, because I was surprised I didn’t recognize the cover—it’s a black and white photo that’s blue-tinted with an odd metallic process—I am curious about how it’s achieved—I feel like it might have been unusual at the time. Maybe not. Anyway, in the photo, she’s either opening or blocking a huge gate—you could read a lot into this—and I’m sure that’s what’s intended—say: “I’m attractive and I have cool things! Check it out! Welcome… come on in!” Or, perhaps, more or less the opposite message: “Uh… no. I don’t think so. Over my dead body.” Or maybe even something kinky or sinister (use your imagination). The “answer” photograph on the back cover shows her running through a garden, so… maybe I’m overthinking things, and the gate is just there because it’s the gate at the garden where they took the photo, and it looked cool. In which case they were not overthinking things.

It’s nice record. All songs but one are written or co-written by Carly Simon. “Share the End” is big, orchestral song—a little nutty, like something I like. A lot of the record is quiet, acoustic, pretty. I’m not focusing on the lyrics, maybe another time. For the most part, I don’t focus on lyrics, unless they really stand out, or I feel like there’s a reason to go back and engage in a lot of multiple listenings. I’m not alone there, I’m sure—but everyone is different—your approach to music. The last song on the record is “I’ve Got to Have You,” written by Kris Kristofferson, which is the other reason I came upon this record—I didn’t know that song, but heard Sammi Smith’s version, which is one of my favorite songs she does, so I looked up who else did it. This version isn’t as good, but that’s no criticism—no one is as good as Sammi Smith. It’s interesting, they were born the same year—though at this point, years, time, people’s ages, mean very little. Some are still with us, some aren’t—but these singers, whose voices come alive on this indestructible vinyl, will always be with us.

The Esquires “Get on Up” / “Listen to Me”

Two songs from The Esquires, each 2:25! On Bunky Records—first Bunky label I’ve seen—I looked it up, out of Chicago. “Get On Up” is an upbeat, R&B song, a dance number, with the singing in falsetto, and then a lower voice answering, “Get on up”—it’s effective. It was a hit song in 1967. I don’t remember it, but it’s possible I heard it. The Esquires were a soul band from Milwaukee—they started playing in the Fifties, even, played throughout the Sixties, into the Seventies, moved to Chicago at some point and put out some records. The B-side, “Listen to Me,” is also very good—a different sound, different vocal style, very emotional. I looked to see if both these songs were on YouTube—they are—and I don’t usually read the “comments” (I usually avoid them), but one under this song caught my eye—someone said they played the song in their band, the Perfections, in Sandusky, Ohio, in the Sixties. That got my attention because I grew up there, and I’m always interested in any bit of history about my hometown. I knew nothing about the music scene there, of course, at that time (not yet 10 years old)—I don’t remember any local bands from that time. Plus, I lived kind of out in the country. But it’s fascinating to think about.

I love the band name, The Esquires—it’s such a classic name, and also very cool, and not ridiculous, like so many band names. There must have been a few “Esquires” over time. I wonder what people did back before there was the internet, if they wanted to find out if their prospective band name had been taken? I guess, just went for it. It’s a word with a funny history (I’m not going into it), and not too long ago, I think, attorneys used it as part of their title, but now I get the feeling that’s seen as pretentious. I used to write “Esq.” after my name, when I was a goofball kid. It’s the name of Fender electric guitar (one not unlike the Telecaster), and of course there’s that men’s magazine which used to be pretty prominent in the magazine days. These Esquires wore very cool matching suits when they performed (judging by internet photos). This is another record that I have no idea how I got it—though I do live in Milwaukee, and likely picked it up here. Maybe one of my record collector friends gave it to me—it’s in pristine condition—definitely not one of the 45’s that were sitting on top of my refrigerator in a basket. I’ll play it whenever I want to dance—though I rarely dance at home—and it’s a bit labor-intensive changing the record every 2:25. That’s 45’s for you.

Skeeter Davis “What Does It Take (To Keep a Man Like You Satisfied)”

I have enough records by my favorite all-time singer to occasionally take her for granted and not even think twice about a particular album—like this one—as just another Skeeter Davis record I haven’t written about. At first glance the album cover looks like a product from back in the days before the arty rock record covers changed the way we looked at album covers. The RCA Victor Dynagroove logo is nearly as prominent as the that long, long title, and the songs are all listed directly below our recording artist’s name, in a much smaller font, of course. No less than four of the twelve song titles include parenthetical phrases—including the one that gives the album its title—you’d almost think it was a Will Travis tape. And seeing how the longest song here is 2:40, I would hazard that this album might hold the world record for song title wordiness vs. total recording time. I’ll elaborate more on the songs, below.

But first, the cover. There are so many great Skeeter Davis album covers, her biggest competition in that area is against herself, thus I kind of overlooked this one before now. It’s a full cover photograph, uncredited, but so beautiful, I hope someone out there has the original photo (and reads this and sends it to me). The right side of the photo is in deep shadows, from which Skeeter Davis is emerging as she looks out a window on the left—large glass panes, framed in old, white-painted wood. We see nothing out the sliver of window—just the stark light of daytime—but what is she seeing? One can only presume it’s her man with another woman. She’s wearing a dark blue dress with bold, white polka dots, which contrasts nicely with the burgundy curtain and red-brown sash and tassels holding the curtain open—I don’t even know what to call it, but it’s incredible—the kind of things you’d see in your grandparents’ or great aunt’s house. And then a somewhat rare portrait of Skeeter in profile, which is an entirely different dimension of her multifaceted album cover image collection. Her hair is pinned up in the back—some hairdo I don’t know the name of, I suppose, with curls the size of drain culverts—I guess that’s what they use those pink, plastic curlers and Aqua Net for. Oh, and her expression—it’s sad, indeed.

As is usual with her records, six songs per side, and all of them shorter than three minutes. I wish everyone did that. The kind of nutso “Set Him Free” (with spoken parts, including a “judge” in court) is one I’ve heard before. The melancholy and beautiful “Fuel to the Flame,” written by Dolly Parton and Bill Owens, is another one I’ve heard her sing before, somewhere, and it’s one I like a lot. “Something Comes Over Me,” by Sandra Rhodes, is another slow, pretty one. One of the loveliest songs on the record is written by Skeeter Davis— “You Taught Me Everything That I Know.” This is one of Skeeter Davis’ more pop-oriented records, even though there’s still a country feel to it. The producer, Felton Jarvis (great name) provides some liner notes on back in which he refers to Skeeter as “versatile” in the first paragraph, and the song selection as “diversified” in the second. He also credits the arranger (Bill Walker) as “greatest,” and the Nashville Sound musicians as “best”—and they are.

I don’t know if this means anything, but the word “world” is in no less than three of the song titles, including, “It’s a Crazy World” (Bill Dees). Then there’s “Sad Sad World” which is one of my favorites—it’s a rock’n’roll number I feel like I’ve heard somewhere else—I can’t find it—anyway, it’s another one written by Sandra Rhodes. My favorite song on the record is “I’m Looking (For a World)”—which is by John D. Loudermilk. What’s interesting is that his version comes off as quirky, homegrown, a little corny, but Skeeter’s rendition really highlights the strangeness of the song—it’s one that David Lynch missed. Or maybe he didn’t… maybe I missed it in Lynch-ville. You get a bit of the picture from some of the lyrics: “Shiny plastic flowers (shiny plastic flowers), electronic steeple chimes (electronic steeple chimes), seem to be becoming… the symbols of our times.” It’s a fairly standard, slow pop song, but the production is unusual, with effective use of background vocals, and an oddball spoken part, which no one does as well as Skeeter: “I’m looking for—a simple sandy suntan world—not a handy sunlamp world—but one that is true.” But like I said, it’s better if you hear it—which you can, on the YouTube. So few “views”—and so few of you here. I guess we could all be having an intimate little Skeeter Davis party.

Grace Slick “Manhole”

Side A (or, “Right Side Up”—yes, it’s one of those) starts out with what sounds like some backwards stuff, you know, tape running backwards. I don’t think sung backwards, though—though maybe Grace Slick could do it. Some of this record is sung in Spanish, but I don’t think I confuse Spanish with backwards English, come on. Though, it could be Spanish backwards, it’s hard to tell. Anyway, kinda weird that two records in a row (randomly selected for review) have backwards stuff. I would have thought that the first time someone did that (whether or not they were chanting “Satan”) would have been quite enough—like putting a PowerPoint chapter in a novel—it’s clever exactly one time—but after that—no.

This strange record from 1973 is all over the place, to say the least, and there’s certainly enough here that I could imagine someone getting quite obsessed with it, while others might dismiss it as too weird—and that alone would get my attention (though I’ve read or heard exactly nothing about this record in the last half-century). Actually, the cover alone was enough to get my attention—a painting or drawing of Grace Slick as Medusa, perhaps—I’m not sure how much it resembles either (might just be split ends) but it looks great—as does the back cover painting or drawing of people (perhaps those involved in this record) in the recording studio. I was looking for the art credits, and then noticed, right on the front: “Child type odd art by Grace.” Also, just the name of the record, “Manhole,” got my attention because, when I thought about it, that word, which describes a “utility hole” is not really used that often (unless you’re a utility worker) and it is possibly used more often as a pun, for either a man’s anus (good), or “deep pit of the grim and pathetic downside of the male segment of the species” (bad). Also, it’s the name of one of my all-time-favorite songs, by Men’s Recovery Project (2005).

This masterpiece is on Grunt Records, which I did have to look up, being curious. I guess it was Jefferson Airplane’s label, at least after 1971. Interesting name for a record label, as it might possibly mean “workers in the trenches” (admirable), or “the sound one makes while pooping” (gross). If this record is any indication, “Grunt” could also have meant “artistic freedom,” or “like pulling teeth.” I’ll go with artistic freedom, or at least freedom from trying to satisfy a certain percentage of expectations in order to sell a certain number of units. Most of the first side is: “Theme from the Movie ‘Manhole’”—and I’m not going to make the assumption that no such movie exists, at least as a movie—but I will make the assumption that such a movie, if it indeed did exist, would be enhanced if you were high—at least a little bit. I was lucky enough, with my used copy of the record, to have a full-size 8-page insert intact. It’s mostly lyrics and credits, but there’s some whimsical foolery as well. Also, a newspaper clipping about a Madrid gas leak explosion that sent manhole covers airborne like breakfast cereal. Side B (or, “Upside Down”) sounds like another adventure entirely—it’s like the cornucopia of pills that are Side A were isolated one at a time (or in limited, manageable cocktails) to make up each of the four songs on Side B. It’s all a lot of fun, actually, and very 1973—and it puts me in mind of the spirit of my first band—despite our limitations—though this isn’t about me.

1910 Fruitgum Co. “Indian Giver” / “Pow Wow”

This 45, from 1969, is the most expensive record I ever bought. $5000. Which is kind of pathetic considering I don’t much like it anymore—and nice copies go for next to nothing, 50 years later. But it was my favorite record at the time—I’m guessing I was about 10 years old—and so I bought it from David G. No money actually had to change hands, since he owed me $5000. What did he owe me for? I don’t remember now, but I think it was about a bet. We used to bet hefty amounts over minor disagreements, but no one ever seemed to settle up. Actually, I do still feel a faint glimmer of that involuntary spine tingling you get from a musical hook—in this case, I think it’s merely the drums at the beginning of the verse—and to some degree the bass line (which was more hidden back in the days when my “hi-fi” was a cheap, plastic “Show ’n Tell” player). Also, I was captivated by the lyrics mentioning “Windy”—and I wondered if it was the same Windy immortalized in The Association hit a couple years earlier. I knew no Windy, but I did know a Wendy, and I might have had a crush on her.

That the song was offensive didn’t occur to me at the time. The term “Indian Giver,” of course, is useful to describe someone who gives you something and then takes it back—maybe someone could popularize a different term for that phenomenon that isn’t a negative stereotype of a group of people—say, “Reverse Gifter” (I realize that has no ring to it). That the song is also using the term to complain about a woman who “no longer puts out” is doubly offensive. And that the musical motif is based on a stereotyped version of a recognizable Native American music makes it triply offense. Still, maybe the whole thing is harmless enough, just kind of dumb. And certainly not worth five grand.

It’s amazing my copy still plays, seeing how I played it to death. It’s on the most psychedelic looking Buddah (sic) label. And it’s cracked all the way through, too, but I put a piece of scotch tape on the “B” side—so the “A” side still plays fine. Unfortunately, I was never able to play the “B” side, that I remember, and I would have remembered, I think. It’s called “Pow Wow,” but instead of another inane and offensive cultural rip-off, this song (I only know this since it’s on YouTube) is entirely pressed backwards! Apparently, the record company had some reason to do this—involving airplay—that seemed to make sense to them. The song that’s played backwards is called “Bring Back Howdy Doody”—that’s kind of a goofy pop number (I know because it’s on YouTube). Howdy Doody was a puppet—a cowboy character—who was on TV. So if you think about it, it’s kind of a brilliant move putting a backwards version of that song on the B-side of “Indian Giver.” I’m just now realizing this—that it’s somewhat clever, not just annoying. I really can’t remember if I listened to “Pow Wow” as a lad, and what I thought about it. I must have, but maybe I was just confused—but then, “confusion” was pretty much the baseline state of my entire childhood.