Quite by chance, this record came up on my random pick system, and today happens to be the day after National Coffee Day, and the before International Coffee Day—so I’m hereby naming THIS day: 40 Cups of Coffee Day. Song is written by Danny Overbea, a Chicago rhythm and blues musician who also wrote “Train, Train, Train.” Ella Mae Morse had hit singles going back to 1942—and this one is from 1953—so I guess she was needing all that coffee to keep up. Not that she was old—let’s see, in her late twenties when she recorded this? From the sound of her voice, you might think older, actually—she has a very full, confident, weathered sound. I might have guessed it was later, too, as it’s essentially rock’n’roll—a bluesy pop song. The other side, “Oh! You Crazy Moon” is a standard from 1939 (I think?) by Jimmy Van Heusen and Johnny Burke (though, the version I know is Sinatra’s, from his moon record in 1966). But I bet people were paying more attention to the “40 Cups of Coffee” song—because that’s a lot of coffee. And we all get the sentiment. Some people called her the first rock’n’roll singer—I suppose due to her hits in the Forties, which I haven’t heard—and I read that she was performing R&B, and crossing over to Black audiences. The record credits “with Dave Cavanaugh’s Music” as the accompaniment—he was with Capitol Records—did everything but make the coffee. Well, I shouldn’t assume that. Somebody made the coffee. This 45 is on a purple Capitol label—and someone played this one A LOT. It gets through the A-side without skipping, at least, and there is an ocean of beautiful scratchiness, almost as if it’s playing along—a fifth (or 45th) member the band—and the more coffee you drink, the more perfectly that works—and the more beautiful it sounds.
Archive for September, 2022
Vanilla Fudge “The Beat Goes On”
It was while listening to and writing about two other Vanilla Fudge albums (somehow I had a record and cover that didn’t match, so I tackled both of them) that I became aware of this one, so I kept my eye out for it, and soon found a copy. Also, I heard drummer Carmine Appice mention it in an interview on The Trap Set podcast. So, I was stoked to find a copy. Whenever I say “stoked,” I’m being ironic, because I hate that phrase (just so you know). I’m not going to do a play-by-play of this record—you can find other people writing about it easy enough—and you can find it streaming, or a vinyl copy, like I did—and it’s better if you just hear it for yourself. I occasionally make things up, and if I was to accurately describe this record, readers might think I’m fabricating my description for humorous intent. That’s how weird it is. Good weird or bad weird, that is the question. I imagine that many listeners find it unlistenable-ly weird. But for me, nothing ever gets weird enough, really. This record comes close—maybe even crosses the line.
There are just so many red flags right off the bat—but the front cover isn’t one of them. Even though text in other languages often indicates pretension, it looks nice, as does the band and album name in a cheerful, rainbow font. Also, it opens up, and there are b&w portraits of band members behind wavy glass—which looks nice. And something to read (for later) about each one. The credits on back is where the red flags lie. First of all, whenever someone says (about an album, not a movie): “Produced and DIRECTED by”—run the other direction. In this case, it’s Shadow Morton. (Also, it’s “Starring” the band members. Yikes.) Next, anytime you see: Mozart and Beethoven on a rock record, beware! Also, a Lennon & McCartney cover is a giant bummer (which infected pop records for several decades like a lingering disease. Like I’ve said before, I love the Beatles, but there are very, very few good covers of their songs). And here there are FOUR—presented in a kind of medley (another red flag)—that sound like they were recorded with tin cans and string. But why not. Most of this record is on the bad side of “nearly unbearable, even the first time around,” but for all that, the “The Beat Goes On” variations/theme—I find pretty okay. Once I was in an old Italian restaurant in New York’s Little Italy neighborhood, and there was an old guy—I’m guessing a regular—sitting in a booth, and every so often he would say, “The beat goes on,”—just out of nowhere, in reference to nothing, but clear as a bell. It was pretty great.
The band bios inside, while promising, are mind-numbingly dull. Which could be by design (intended to be read while listening, as I’m doing)? There are, however, a few standout details. Mark enjoys golf and bowling, likes good food and jazz, and doesn’t like narrow-minded people. Outside of his band duties, Tim spends time drag racing and rebuilding stereo sets. And he likes Chinese food and doesn’t like “hypocritical ‘day’ people.” Carmine also builds and races cars, when he has time away from girls. He rebuilds stereo sets, as well, and likes buying clothes, and is involved in “wild interior decorating.” And Vinnie? He also likes cars. Sadly, Tim passed away last year. The other three are still with the current version of the band—playing some live shows this fall, if you want to catch them. Don’t be a jerk and stand in front yelling, “The beat goes on,” okay?
It starts out with “Blue Moon,” a song I wish you’d only hear once in a blue moon—rather than all the time—I don’t hate the song, I just wish I didn’t hear it so often. But here, it’s a totally delightful way to start the record, because this particular incarnation of the “Shearing sound”—with congas and flute—is the perfect expression of this song. Percussionist Armando Peraza is all through this record, playing conga and bongos—as well as other percussionists. And there’s flute. I’m going by the liner notes on back of the record—there isn’t a musician lineup—and I’m not looking online. This is a very percussion-heavy record, actually—I really like it. There’s a mixture of standards—some that I’m not that familiar with—and Latin numbers—mambos, cha-chas, boleros. I guess you could say it’s Latin versions of Shearing, and Shearing treatment of Latin songs. The liner notes go more into depth, but I’m not going to retype/paraphrase any. You can find this record for little or no money, on vinyl, like a lot of these Fifties and Sixties Shearing records. Consider yourself lucky. It’s a great record. Also—typical Shearing album cover—a beautiful, darkhaired woman, album cover model, sitting on a tablecloth thrown over an egg crate—with no shirt. She has her back to us, looking over her shoulder. It’s funny, back in 1961, would this have been scandalous? I guess not, it’s here. If she would have been facing forward, however, it would have been considered provocative, maybe even obscene, by some. It would not have been “acceptable.” Her back was okay, front, not okay. It’s nice that we are so much more sophisticated now than those silly prudes back in 1961!
This is another one I must have dug out from the crawlspace, covered with cobwebs and mice turds—yet it plays beautifully, being an indestructible 45 RPM single. I should add, these little records aren’t necessarily indestructible if you hold it over a gas flame and mold it into an ashtray, as I’ve seen done. Which makes me think—when future civilizations explore the ruins of our world, they will no doubt be partial to the music that was recorded on this format, as it might be the only thing they can get a peep out of. Also, they are going to wonder what type of food we ate off of the billions of unearthed ashtrays. It’s the Glory label, which I don’t think I’ve seen before—a lovely shade of light green, and “Glory” in script letters right above the hole—which makes me think of “glory hole”—but I’m sure I’m the only one. Linda Laurie was a high school age singer who had a hit with this bizarre record. Well, the B-side, “Ooh, What a Lover” is a bit hard to take, as it’s Linda Laurie singing “sexy” variations on the title, accompanied by what sounds like a cheap guitar and a railroad spike—recorded in a cave. I’m probably making that sound pretty good—and there is also a brief verse—it sounds like a young man singing—notable because he rhymes “magic” and “tragic”—like that Luna song, “Lost in Space.” Any others?
“Ambrose (Part Five)” was the hit, however, and you can understand why—it’s odd enough to be intriguing, and it then starts to get better the more times you play it. I can imagine a kid, in 1958, driving the rest of their household crazy with endless repeat listenings. It starts out with a little jazzy piano, which then drops in volume while Linda Laurie does a dramatic monologue in a kind of exaggerated talky Brooklyn woman voice—she does it very well. She’s addressing “Ambrose”—saying it’s “very dark in here”—the cave from the first song? But then she mentions that the walls are vibrating, but before a fully supernatural development can take hold, she mentions they’re in a subway tunnel. It’s not strictly a monologue, because every so often, “Ambrose” deadpans, “Just keep walkin’” in a deep, gnarly voice (also performed by Linda Laurie—as I learned by watching her on “To Tell the Truth”). So now we picture them walking on and on in the dark, through a subway tunnel, and she just rambles on and on, relationship talk, “you can’t spend the rest of your life avoiding responsibility,” etc. Some of it mundane, some pretty funny and weird. It just goes on and on and on—you’d swear it’s the whole side of an LP, but no—it’s just two and a half minutes long. It’s an epic, though—and especially if you keep repeating it. You’d have to keep replacing the needle—at the beginning. Kids these days have it much easier.
Steely Dan “Aja”
I’ve seen a documentary and read a book about this record, so I’m too fatigued to write a “review”—which I don’t really do, anyway. Plus, I write about individual Steely Dan songs, where I primarily try to analyze the lyrics (at rayspeen.com/steely-dan). My history with this record is fun to think about. It came out in 1977, when I was in high school, during a transitional time of my musical preferences when, to oversimplify, I went from Supertramp to the Sex Pistols. I probably put Steely Dan with the old stuff—though, of course, it’s obvious now, they fit in essentially nowhere. I had all their records up to that point—but I didn’t fully appreciate The Royal Scam (1976)—or this one—both the music and the lyrics were too sophisticated for me. Not that I wasn’t listening to some challenging stuff—I just didn’t take the time for Steely Dan. In their three years without a record, after this one—I probably pictured them in rocking chairs on the porch of the retirement home—even though Becker and Fagen were in their late twenties when this record came out. But they always seemed impossibly distant—not even like the much cooler, older brother—but the older brother of the older brother—some kind of hipsters who I didn’t understand… and would have no patience with me.
I did think they were pretty funny, though, based on occasional lyrics I paid attention to, and the album covers. But I imagine I was merely alienated by the minimalist, elegant Aja cover—with more glossy black than I’ve ever seen in one place. The inside cover, however, just cracked me up. Something told me that the odd snapshots of the two were carefully selected to look like they were maybe the only pictures they could find at press time. Murky, high contrast black and white—Walter Becker in the shadows with a Fender guitar that appears to have no finish. Donald Fagen is shirtless, with a dog, in what looks like a garden shed. Both with really dark sunglasses, like they never come out in daytime. It could be they are trying to represent (with the photos) Los Angeles (Donald) and New York (Walter)—which would make sense in that, by this time, they were both a NY band who recorded in LA and an LA band who recorded in NY (kind of, more or less, am I wrong?). It sure feels that way—which is integral to how it sounds.
On some previous Steely Dan records, the liner notes really cracked me up—same thing here. The cover opens up and is almost all text. I’m guessing they are fans of the tradition of liner notes, as am I. Because of the dryly humorous notes on their first record—by an apparently fictional character—I always assumed the extensive notes here, by journalist “Michael Phalen,” was similar. But I didn’t know for sure—they are goofy, but journalists are goofy—so the humor is subtle enough to keep you guessing. (My favorite line, for some reason, about “Deacon Blues”—“an Edge City ballad enlivened only by Pete Christlieb’s haunting tenor work and a tasty chart by Scott.” That always makes me laugh.) I did some poking around on the internet, and it seems the consensus is that this was written by Becker or Fagen. Or maybe both—I can picture them both hovered over a typewriter, each adding lines, as they crack up.
Because of this, I always assumed that the second part of the liner notes, written by “Steve Diener, President of ABC Records” was also for humor—but I looked him up—a real guy (he passed away recently). I just assumed this part was an even more dry exercise in liner note parody—it’s tough to get through—never have so many words said so little. But apparently it was written by the guy. One wonders if they really did (as he claims) ask him to write the text—maybe knowing that it would carry its own quality of oddness. You’re never quite sure what’s going on in the minds of Becker and Fagen—which is what makes them so much fun.
The opening notes—bass (Chuck Rainey) and drums (Paul Humphrey) and, I guess, Clavinet (Joe Sample) and some guitar, I guess (Dean Parks), and maybe some synth (Fagen)—of “Black Cow” is one of my favorite song (and album) openings—it always makes me think of a cartoon pocket-watch that’s been wound too tight, comically exploding (perhaps Becker). And then those first few lines—“In the corner… of my eye… I saw you in Rudy’s… you were very high…” And then for the next line, Fagen’s vocal is joined by the backup singers (Clydie King, Rebecca Louis, Sherlie Matthews, Venetta Fields) “You were high!” And then him alone, “It was a cryin’ disgrace…” And then the backup singers alone, “They saw your face…” And it follows variations of that patten (also adding sax—Tom Scott), more or less throughout the song—back and forth with the backing vocals, in strict but unfollowable patterns. I always found it irresistible, but it was years and years and so many listens before I ever sat down and thought why it’s so compelling. I suppose, trying to describe it in writing is kind of pathetic, but it’s one of my favorite recordings ever. Just the whole song… you (reading this) have heard it, right? This song also includes my favorite solo on the record—electric piano (Victor Feldman)—cool, understated, and warm. And that’s on an album with some great solos.
It’s a song I didn’t appreciate at all back then—other than the drinking part—but something happened about a decade or so ago, and the song started to delight me every time I heard it—and it continues, to this day, to sound better every time I put it on. It makes no sense—I can’t think of another similar phenomenon—except very occasionally with other music—or sometimes there’s a movie you think you’re through with—and you see it at the right time—and suddenly it’s like it’s new.
Unfortunately, it’s downhill from there. “Aja” is a great song, but you hear it entirely too often—at the grocery store, doctor’s office, DMV, spa. Cool it with “Aja!” Next is “Deacon Blues,” which is a song I despised at one time (I’m talking about twenty years ago, or so, just before I came back around to SD, in general). I think the lyrics put me off a bit; not an Alabama football fan—though, I admit, they have the coolest name. But who says “work” a saxophone? Of course, that’s the point. Anyway, when I came back to this song, say seven or eight years ago, I couldn’t get enough of it—and for a while it was my favorite Steely Dan song.
You don’t even need the second side—the three songs on Side A are a full course meal. You can, if you want to, save the rest of it for a rainy day. There are four more songs, each one a journey—it’s almost overkill. I mean, when I bought this record, I was probably appalled. Who puts only seven songs on a record? I mean post prog-rock—these were pop songs. That’s nearly a dollar a song! But seeing how “Black Cow” is a night out dancing, “Aja” is a “suite,” and “Deacon Blues” is one of those ridiculously long New Yorker stories—you need a breather before Side B—and some time with the reference books. And a rainy day. But, of course, we’ve had 45 years—lots of rain, when you add it up.
DJ Farraginous 
Recent Comments