Martin Denny “Romantica”

Martin Denny “Romantica” 1961

Or, more accurately: Romantica – The Lush and Exotic Sounds of Martin Denny. From 1961. I sure can’t keep track of these Martin Denny records—which ones I like best, which ones I’ve heard, which ones I have, and which ones I’ve lost. There are a lot of them. And I’ve heard a lot. I haven’t yet heard one and thought, “What happened there?” As in, it was inferior. But I also haven’t heard one and said, “That’s way better than the rest!” But there must be both profound and subtle differences between them. (I haven’t heard any later ones.) There must be a good Martin Denny list out there. Should I look? Another time. Another rainy day. What did occur to me is that I might have reviewed this one—so I looked back—no, but I wrote about an earlier one—and wrote almost exactly what I wrote above! Am I a person who just keeps repeating himself? I guess so. I guess I should go back and read my own bullshit once in a while! So, what I decided I’d do, is take the same approach as the earlier one—I’ll listen to it and describe my feelings—the audio journey it takes me on. But first, a quick description of the cover—It’s dominated by a bare-shouldered woman who’s staring right at us, and behind her, a multidose of out-of-focus colored balls—could be pills, or lights, or beads, or balloons, or caviar. I’ll go with the caviar.

The back cover says: “…twelve selections that are ideal for a dream voyage on an ocean of serene romance.” So here we go. Oh, wow, I’m literally on the ocean, in a big ship—I guess it’s dated by modern standards—but would have seemed futuristic when I was one year old. Sixty-some years later, but the same things appeal to me: the salt air, and fish leaping from the sea, and a young woman I see who I focus right in on, as if she was top-billed in a movie or something. In typical rom-com fashion, we don’t hit it off—I guess she thinks I’m old enough to be her grandfather. I say when it comes to romance, the spirt of the heart, there is no age. Sure, as an organ, the heart wears out, but it’s all relative. She agrees to share a cocktail on the foredeck, or maybe it’s not there—I don’t know the names of ship things. We get out of the sun. The sun is intense. Did I say what ocean? Actually, I don’t know, but it’s not the North Atlantic. The weather is balmy. I guess when we reach an island with palm trees we’ll know the ballpark. The drink had pineapple juice, coconut, some other exotic fruit juice you can’t even get at Trader Joe’s. And did I mention rum? Now it is night. There’s a lot of sneaking around, due to the nature of this illicit romance. How was I supposed to know she’s both married and a spy? There’s a guy with a fez slinking around, as well. He takes me to a guy who will forge my papers so I can gain entry to the port we are destined for. While he’s at it, I ask him to change my age—subtract 20 years—why not? That’s what this voyage is doing for my heart. I may pick a new name, as well.

After the intermission, we’re running around the island, me and the woman I met on the ship. Someone is after us, and we dart, and dodge, in and out, through narrow streets, and finally into a small club and out on the back veranda. More rum drinks. I guess the woman saw my forged papers and was fooled by my new identity. I’m in decent shape for all this dashing here and there, as well. Now it’s the middle of the night and we’re telling stories to each other about our past—of course I’m making mine up and I suspect she is, too. While she goes to the bathroom (for like 45 minutes) I have a comic interlude with a man trying to sell me a trained bird that sits on his shoulder. Of course, I don’t believe he’ll part with the bird, but I go along with it and part with a few dollars. Apparently, not only did I get new papers, the guy also put some kind of spell on me to reverse aging, and I’m now a teenager, hanging out in my parents’ Tiki room, with the fishnets and glass buoys and dried starfish. The woman finally comes back from the bathroom. I suspect something funny is going on, but she assures me she is madly in love with me—or would be if I wasn’t too young for her. She says I shouldn’t be drinking all these rum drinks, but I tell her, I’ve already done my time as an old person—just trying to stay alive—but now I want to live! The thing is, I can’t remember my new name—it as too unmemorable—but I can’t remember my old one, either. Perhaps it’s time for another reinvention!

David LaFlamme “White Bird”

This is another record I bought for two reasons only. One, because I never heard of it, the label (Amherst), or the artist. And B, it was $1. The year, 1976, doesn’t inspire my confidence, generally. Around that time, I was going to the record store in a somewhat more informed manner—I would read Rolling Stone magazine, and if there was a new release that a writer I liked said was good, I might buy it. Don’t remember this one. The cover is all white with a blue circle, in which two stylized white birds are crossing their beaks. What does it mean? One might reasonably fear something sinister, Satanic, or even worse. The guy on back, who we presume is David LaFlamme, looks like he could be a chef, or perhaps an actor in the theater, or a watercolor portraitist, or—in what isn’t much of a stretch, seeing how this is a record—a musician. In the musician credits, he’s: “violins (I don’t know if he plays two at once—I’ve heard it can be done), vocals.” Someone named “Dominique” is also listed for vocals. I don’t recognize anyone else (besides Tower of Power Horn Section!) except Mitchell Froom—who I heard a lot about awhile back as a musician and producer (keyboards and assistant producer here).

I might call this prog rock—not sure if that’s right—because there are long songs, and extended flights of complex, virtuosity-ridden, instrumental sections. Some of it, though, is a little closer to R&B based pop, and some more like jazz fusion, I guess—or simply “fusion”—which means nothing and covers a lot of bases. The songs are by LaFlamme (w/some co-writers). I can’t say I love it all—but I can actually listen to it without cringing, and some parts I really like a lot. What’s kind of cool is how much the violin adds to it whenever the violin comes in—it’s a pretty distinctive sound. It’s weird, within a single song, there will be a really compelling part, and then it’ll go off to wanky-wanky-land and lose me—I mean it’s kind of crazy how within a single song you’ll get a little R&B, some funk, some jazz, some pop, some prog—some totally hot section—followed by a bit that’s as flaccid as a leftover dinner salad tomorrow.

It’s a weird record, actually, it really is, but I’m telling you, 1976, even if it wasn’t a great year for music (massive generalization—plenty of great music that year) overall—it was a weird year—and not just for music—for everything. I guess I’m intrigued enough by the sound that I’m switching over to the lyrics a little (I’m always a listen-to-the-lyrics at-a-later-date person), but I’m not finding a whole lot that’s not about “love.” Well, there’s one about “America” (mixed with love)—worst song on the record. This was the Bicentennial, after all. And “White Bird” is about a bird, in its most literal sense—of course it must be metaphorical—maybe about how you need to express your creativity—if you’re stuck just working a desk job or something, you’ll die. Or maybe not literally die. Everyone dies. I’ve probably got that wrong. Maybe it’s about how a man can’t be held down by one woman. I don’t know. I guess “This Man” is my favorite on the record—it’s got an overblown into, and then goes into a very funky section, it’s a hot song. It’s about “movin’ on down the highway, lonely on the road, when you’re a superstar,” and so forth. It’s got some nice soloing in it, too—sounds like it could be violin and synth interplay, but what do I know. It’s enjoyable, and I don’t care for 90% of wanky solos—but this in nice.

Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard “Pancho and Lefty” / “Opportunity to Cry”

I know this song from the Townes Van Zandt version, who wrote it—it’s a good song. A while back I was listening to a lot of Townes Van Zandt, who was a great songwriter and singer, but at some point, for some reason, I had to take a break… I have no idea why. Maybe some feeling of inescapable sadness from his songs. It’s my problem. I’ll come back to him. I don’t want to be a person who is just trying to escape all the time. Anyway, this is a version sung by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Every time I hear Willie Nelson, I try to figure out just what makes his voice so distinctive and lovely. And Merle Haggard—I went through a phase with him a few decades back. So I was expecting something here, but I just can’t get past the production—it sounds like everyone is on TV, with makeup and manicured nails. Maybe it’s just the sound of 1982. I’d much prefer a version recorded in a truck-stop bathroom or a tent, somewhere, or a shed, or in the backseat on a trip. That’s just my preference. The B-side is better, not sure why. The funny thing is—the magic 8-ball happened to pick out this record at almost the same time I started reading Bob Dylan’s new book (The Philosophy if Modern Song), and I just came to a chapter on this recording—so I stopped reading and wrote this. Now I’ll go back and see what Bob’s take is… sure to be entirely different than mine. Maybe he’ll convince me.

So, ol’ Bob gives us as bit of the history of Townes Van Zandt. How ultimately, Hank Williams was his guy—I can hear that. I didn’t know that he died on New Year’s Day, like Hank. Dylan then has some kind words about Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Then, mostly, he kind of interprets the lyrics of the song, and goes on and on. Which got me to listen to the song in a new light—based on the words, more, I mean. I’ve always liked Townes’ version, of course, the beautiful melody, and the sadness. It’s a nutty song… like a dual narrative, with Pancho meeting his fate in Mexico, and Lefty ending up in, of all places, Cleveland. Where I’ve spent a few years—and could very well have “ended up.”

Out of curiosity, I checked out the album (by the same name) that this song is from,, which includes the B-side, “Opportunity to Cry.” The album also includes Merle Haggard’s “Reasons to Quit”—followed by “No Reason to Quit.” I gotta say, that’s some inspired sequencing. Those songs sound great. I don’t know why the sound of the title track put me off when I first spun it, so I give it another try. It’s a great song, sure, but this production—it starts off sounding like a bloated Hollywood movie from the Eighties, when everything got expensive but looked cheap. I’m sorry I can’t get past that. All recorded songs are essentially the perfect evocation of a time and place, more than anything. Sure, there’s poetry, and performances, and emotion, love, big hearts, passion, ideas, philosophy, history, all of it. But when it comes down to it, it’s still you getting invited into a room. And this is just a room—in spite of the good people and grand intentions—this is a room I don’t want to spend time in.

The Peppermint Rainbow “Will You Be Staying After Sunday”

Was The Peppermint Rainbow one of those bands with names like The Peppermint Airplane, The Marshmallow Overcoat, The Chocolate Alarm Clock, The Marzipan Table Saw, The Peanut Butter Rainbow? No doubt. I’m getting very little from the album cover—the front looks like it was meticulously composed and executed by a 7^th Grade stoner during a week of concentrated study halls. Maybe a little more information will help. “Sunshine Pop”—from Baltimore—they formed in 1967 and this record is from 1969. The band members were not the songwriters, here, in Peppermint Rainbow Universe.

The back is as full-size photo of the band standing in front of some oppressive architectural behemoth in matching costumes. (There should be a category by now, albums in which the back, or inside, cover should be THE cover.) They look great—the men with light blue flared slacks and matching scarves, dark blue shirts, and white leather shoes. The women have matching light blue mini-dresses with dark blue sashes and white leather go-go boots. They all have great hair. Three men, two women. The guy nearest us, and thus biggest, has a great moustache, plastic frame glasses, and a massive belt, the buckle of which is a plain silver ring about four inches in diameter—I don’t even know how that belt works—and now I’m kind of obsessed with finding one. It doesn’t mean anything weird, does it, that belt? That reminds me, I recently had a dream in which a couple of guys had belt buckles like that—the dream just came back to me—and now I’m seriously creeped out!

Decca Records, no date, no info but producer and arranger and songwriting credits—names I’m not previously familiar with. Romantic pop songs, all mildly catchy. Wait, here’s “Green Tambourine”—I know that one! It’s one of those radio hits from the Sixties that did nothing but annoy me. So, this isn’t shaping up well. Even worse, that was The Lemon Pipers, but producer Paul Leka co-wrote “Green Tambourine” (he also wrote that “Na Na Na Na…” song by Steam, sadly adopted by mindless legions of annoying sports fans sung in fascistic anthemic style), and he used the backing tracks from The Lemon Pipers (if we’re to believe the Wikipedia) for this version here—which makes this equally annoying. But also weird and parallel-universe-y.

Anyway, The Peppermint Rainbow were originally called The New York Times, but they changed their name—I can’t imagine why. Because they found out there was a newspaper by that name? Because they were afraid of aways having to play on double bills with Huey Lewis and The News? They split up in 1970, sadly, because this album is not bad. I can listen to it. The title song transports you to a sunny, colorful, TV show that includes conflict each week and tackles some serious themes—but, ultimately, love prevails, because of the good hearts of the people involved (who are also all unbearably cute). My favorite song is “Sierra (Chasin’ My Dream)”—besides being a good title, it’s a smooth pop song, and the most melancholy track on the album. About a guy who’s leaving behind his girlfriend for his guitar—always a bad idea, because she’s not going to wait. She just isn’t. The guitar will wait. It will even sound better, in time. But his girlfriend… she has moved on. (I made up the end part, but a good song will do that to you…)

Marcel Dzama “Une Danse Des Bouffons”

This is a record that came with a Believer magazine back in 2014—it’s a 7-inch soundtrack record for a film called Une Danse Des Bouffons by Marcel Dzama, a young Canadian filmmaker who I know nothing about—let’s see if I can find it online. Of course it is. The music is fine, if boring—it sounds like a few people with vintage string instruments and untraditional percussion making an experimental movie soundtrack. Exactly. With very few exceptions do I think acoustic guitar-like instruments work for movie soundtracks. This is just a bias of mine. There’s some nice flute on one track, and a lockgroove at the end. It’s only four songs, so I can’t imagine anyone getting too worked up by it. The art on the little cardboard cover is very cool—probably the best part of the artifact. The object here, I suppose, is that these will become collectable and thus worth something, but if everyone who got one of these with their Believer subscription has the same idea, they will never be worth money. Maybe if you wait long enough—but for how long, exactly? It seems like as more time goes on, things get less rare rather than more rare—leading one to believe there are a lot of hoarders out there.

The Gaylords “Spinning a Web” / “Ramona”

Spider metaphor, it’s the one about deceiving. This is a great sounding record—like it’s from another time, which I guess it is—even though 1953 seems like yesterday. I know… I always say that, but it’s true—the world changes a lot faster than I age. But I’ll catch up, I’m sure. “Ramona” is about Ramona—it starts out sad, she’s gone—but then the tempo picks up, and there’s some crazy backup singing and organ. I’ve never heard of The Gaylords, yet I’ve got like four of their 45s—though who knows when I’ll get to the others—when their magic number comes up. Okay, they were a vocal trio—at least of couple of them from Detroit—Italian guys, from Detroit—and some of their songs with a little Italian. So says the Wikipedia… we’ll see. It also says they were originally called The Gay Lords—but that might be a good story. Anyway, they released a bunch of records in the Fifties, and some were hits. My only experience with “Gaylords” was when I was working a third shift warehouse job, my supervisor instructed me to put my finished work in a “Gaylord.” No internet back then, so I was confused. I swore I looked this up before, to no avail, but I just did again, and there’s a whole page explaining their history—they are a type of shipping box—named after the Gaylord Container Corporation, from St. Louis! Mystery solved—but this vocal group are still a bit of a mystery. I’ll look for the documentary.

Lionel Hampton “Golden Vibes”

A year (1959) before Lionel Hampton’s “Silver Vibes,” came this one, subtitled: “with reeds and rhythm.” What I said (in my earlier review) about the Silver Vibes album cover also applies here (though this one is much better, overall). As usual, I can listen to Lionel Hampton records all night long, and as I’ve said before, the jazz vibraphone is perhaps my earliest memory of music—from my dad’s collection—probably meant to quiet me in my crib. And here I sit six decades later, still listening to Hamp in my “crib”—though, since having replaced the formula bottle with the bourbon bottle, and since, the sparkling water. Oh, well, the music makes me happy to simply be alive. This record features a song I’m most obsessed with (“Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”) and one of my favorite jazz compositions (’Round Midnight”) as well as standards I recognize, some I don’t, and some Hampton compositions with names like “Vibraholidy.”

It starts off with “My Prayer”—which immediately beams you into a smoky, dim cocktail lounge, candlelit through red glass, with mysterious figures deep in the shadows. I don’t know about you, but I’m drinking a Rusty Nail. It occurs to me now, that’s an awful name for any drink—and particularly that one. Should I start drinking again, I’m going to rename it “Lauren Bacall”—though, there probably is one. Cocktails are like band names. If there isn’t a cocktail called “But Beautiful”—there should be—and this version, here. Okay. (Not) in keeping with the Olympic medals model, I’ve got to say, as good as this record is, I do like Silver Vibes better—but that’s a unique and exceptional recording. That’s the one with trombones on all the tracks—if I remember correctly. A pretty stunning record. I don’t think he did a “Bronze Vibes”—that would be too weird… maybe I’m wrong. So many records—I’m not even going to check them all. He was active over the large part of the 20^th Century—a pretty amazing dude.

The liner notes, by Irving Townsend, cover the back cover—worth reading, too—gives you the sense of where Lionel Hampton was as popular recording artist when this record came out (the year before I was born). For an odd minute, while listening to the record and reading the back cover, then looking at the generic yet classy album cover, I got this strong feeling of what it might have been like back then, at the time this record came out—the feeling you’d get going to your local record store and buying this album brand new. You’ve already heard a few Lionel Hampton records, of course, or maybe you have several, like my dad did, and then you get this one, and it’s all new to you. Really exciting. When was the last time I went out and bought a contemporary record new, and had that sensation? Well, a few years ago I did, but had to get it mail-order—and it felt different than going to the record store and picking out the record, based on experiences, but also curiosity. I wish I could talk to my dad right now about buying all the jazz records that he had—how he knew about them, where he got the records, which ones first, and how he felt hearing a new one.

John Wesley Ryles “Shine On Me”

I’ve heard the title track, “Shine On Me (The Sun Still Shines When It Rains)”—it must have been a hit. A terrible song. No, it’s okay, very poppy, very light—I suppose one of the catchiest on the album. I have absolutely no idea why I have this record—I never heard of John Wesley Ryles—and it’s from 1978—everything after 1974 is pretty much a red flag, unless you know better. It’s a country record, but you wouldn’t know it from the cover—maybe goin’ for crossover. It’s got an absolutely hideous cover—front and back, airbrushed blue sky with clouds. And then a 7 by 5 ½ inch photo of J.W. Ryles with an airbrushed sun in the corner—and either he’s got space alien level complexion or his face is airbrushed as well. Airbrush artist workin’ overtime! He’s got a cool looking jacket, and you can barely make out the edge of a guitar—so it looks like (if you’re not thinkin’ guitar) like there’s a random piece of wood there. The credits make out that he’s a Nashville guy, I guess. Should I look him up? He’s still a young man—been in the business for decades. He had a hit song, “Kay,” when he was 17, so he’s been dealing’ with that for a lifetime. It’s interesting, normally you’d think this would be a songwriter’s record, but he only wrote one, here—“Next Time”—which happens to be the best song on the album (or second best—see below). Seventy percent of the songs were written or co-written by Terry Skinner, who is also recording engineer (but not a credited musician). Funny place, Nashville. Most of his songs are too peppy for me—though “Cry No More My Lady” is quite nice. He does have a theme going—I mean, besides love gone wrong—there’s a lot of sun and rain references—including storm sound effects on “All Day Rain”—a pretty good song. “Kay” ends the record—I presume a newer version of it—it’s a story song, with enough key changes to get you down the Ohio River high and dry. A bit of a “star is born” story. My favorite song on the record is a cover of the Gerry and the Pacemakers song, “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying”—that’s just an excellent song—and Ryles is a fine singer—does it a good turn.

Donna Summer “MacArthur Park” / “Once Upon a Time”

This live version of “Once Upon a Time” is a fast-paced popsong narrative, a mini-movie, contemporary noir told in hyper disco nightclub style—it’s over before I can type this sentence. Maybe it’s supposed to be 33 1/3 RPM, not 45 (doesn’t actually say on the record). There’s 1978 live audience noise at the beginning, but now it sounds quite ominous. It sounds really cool and weird, actually, the only thing is that now Donna Summer sounds like a slightly off, male crooner. It’s weird that it’s a B-Side, since the studio version of this was the title song of a double album from the year before. I only know that because I happened to be looking at a list of those “33 1/3” books, and there’s one about that album. It’s weird how once you open yourself up to something, the connections start to happen. I was never a disco fan, so this is my sole record by the Queen of Disco. Donna Summer was, to some degree, the just-offscreen soundtrack to the crucial years of my life. No doubt I picked up this one because the A-Side is “MacArthur Park,” one of my favorite songs—and I always love to hear what various artists have done with it. Here, she starts out with a few quiet dramatic lines, and then there’s that annoying disco sound effect (I never did know what that was, it sounds like a clown prop noise) and then it launches into a full disco version of the rest of the song. I’m not crazy about it—still haven’t come around to disco. Give me a few more years. It’s still the song, though, very catchy. No matter what presentation you go with, the line, “someone left the cake out in the rain” is no less weird. It’s a perfect expression of something, though no one knows what it means. (Still haven’t read that Jimmy Webb memoir.) Anyway, it’s a pleasure to hear Donna Summer sing that line, and that song—it just adds to the meaning and the mystique.

Frank Sinatra “September of My Years”

This is one melancholy Sinatra record! It’s the work of a man looking back at his life, and ahead at the days left, and realizing there are one hell of a lot more days behind him. I wonder what the typical age of a person is when that realization hits them? For some, I suppose, it’s the big FOUR O. For me, I guess that was classic midlife crisis time—in that I was acting pretty much like an escaped clown for a few years. So… I wonder how old Sinatra actually was when this record came out? This a 1965 record—and Francis Albert was born in 1915, so that’s easy math. So, this is his turnin’ the corner at 50 record, I get it. It’s a milestone for anyone—though now that I’m 63, I maintain that 50 is decidedly not old. Though, if you drink and smoke and carry on, you might be feelin’ it. A lot of popular standards, here. The songs that make up a large part of Sinatra’s repertoire are songs about seasons, it always seems like—weather, rain, seasons, and the time of day. “It Gets Lonely Early” was always one of my favorites, as is “Last Night When We Were Young.” The record starts with “September of My Years” and ends with “September Song.” The album cover is a classic—an illustration of Sinatra in the shadows, blue suit and tie, blue background—a good likeness, serious, not sad, looking off toward the horizon. The back cover has an odd description: “Frank Sinatra sings of days and loves ago.” The orchestra is Gordon Jenkins, and there are liner notes by Stan Cornyn—this might have been one of his award-winning bits, for what it’s worth. A descriptive and poetic account of the recording session, a little funny and a little weird, and of course very loving. Here’s an excerpt: “Of the bruising day. Of the rouged lips and bourbon times. Of chill winds, of forgotten ladies who ride in limousines.” This is a good record for lonely times, and cold, dark winter evenings.