Dorothy Donegan “at the Embers”

Album cover photos don’t get much better than this one—four well-dressed people sitting at a bar on movable stools, the kind without backs, and tubular steel footrests at the bottom. Two women are on the center stools—wearing skirts and stockings (the photo is cropped above their waists)—and they have slipped off their shoes, which are on the floor below. It’s a rather suggestive photo for 1957. Also, a little weird. I’m not exactly sure what it says, but it seems to say a lot. One would like to assume it’s taken at “The Embers”—and there is music in the air. Drinking is going on, definitely. The men may be more focused on the woman than the woman are on the men. The band is a small jazz combo, sounds like a trio, dominated by piano that I assume is Dorothy Donegan—and her playing is kind of nuts, if I can say it. A lot of energy, and then some. Mostly standards. I have always particularly loved the name “The Embers” for a bar, nightclub, or restaurant—it’s the best.

I wouldn’t call this music “jaunty,” exactly—but it’s definitely not laid back. I might call it “caffeinated”—which I like more than jaunty (the word and the sentiment). It’s certainly energetic. It’s kind of like… why not play 100 notes, where one will do, if you can work in 100 notes. I read a little bit about Dorothy Donegan—classically trained, from Chicago, put out a dozen-and-a-half records from the Forties to the Nineties, but was best known for live performances. Wikipedia notes she was “the first African American to perform at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall”—in 1943. She criticized sexism in the music industry. She was a protegee of Art Tatum. She “was known for performing stride and boogie-woogie, as well as be-bop, swing, and classical.” When you put all those together, what do you get? Rock’n’roll. I’m just kidding—but listen to the short number called “Donegan Walk”—which sounds more like rock’n’roll than most music that calls itself rock’n’roll—it’s my favorite on the record. It’s credited to Dorothy Donegan, as is another one called “DDT”—another rockin’ out number that I’m guessing isn’t named after the insecticide. Maybe it’s “Dorothy Donegan plus something that starts with “T”—(Time, Terror, Tyrannosaurus?). I also very much like some of the standards I know—in particular, a nuts version of “That Old Black Magic,” “Just in Time,” a nice slow version of “My Funny Valentine,” and a hot version of “Lullaby in Birdland” that won’t put you to sleep. All of them are good.

Even though it’s an album cover you might want to hang on your wall, don’t do it! For one thing, you’ve got to protect the record. And for another, you’ll miss the liner notes on back—pretty good ones, though uncredited, which is weird. Even more weird, whoever formatted the liner notes obviously didn’t read them—I won’t go into details, but there are errors—how does that stuff happen—even in 1957? A lot about the Embers—a nightclub/restaurant on East 54^th Street in New York. It was on East 54^th Street, I guess—I looked it up—long gone now—just hideous skyscrapers there, now. Though it’s (was) just around the corner from Dee Dee Ramone Corner. I guess they served food there, too, and for a moment, the liner notes seem to want to turn into a restaurant review—or maybe the author was just hungry! Mostly, it’s some glowing words about Dorothy Donegan and her very popular live performances. A Time Magazine writer is even quoted: “Dorothy shuts her eyes. Her feet begin to pound the floor. Her face contorts as if she were in agony. What comes out is pure Donegan. It has the customers shagging in their seats.” What’s that mean? Well, either they are baseball players, catching fly balls for practice, or they’re f**king!

Mott the Hoople “The Hoople”

There is no way in the world I can listen to this record with the least sense of objectivity—even after 50 years! Yes, it’s been 50 years since I bought this one, and it still plays great—I think it’s my original copy—and it was, indeed, when I was 14 years old, my favorite record for a while. I played it obsessively, obsessed over it, and never got over it. I suppose there is something kind of hopeful about the fact that when I put this record on it takes me right back to that time and place and the person I was then. That’s the power of music, but so much for objectivity. Though—of course I hear it somewhat differently—in that I’ve had half a century of listening to other music, and listening is always a learning experience. I’m sure I hear more, now, and I hear deeper and with a greater degree of understanding and sophistication. So… I’m happy to report that it actually sounds better now than it did back then.

I wrote a “review” back in 2008—when I was less wordy—two sentences—there was more of interest in the comments. Then, around 2018 I went to the Mott the Hoople ’74 show—I think that’s what they called it—great to see Ian Hunter live. I might have said before, this is the odd band in that their best two albums were their last two (this one, and “Mott,” the year before). I mean, that’s my opinion—but it’s like they evolved into this excellence—where most bands evolve to the point where they’re at their peak for the first few albums and then it’s all downhill from there. The album cover is somewhat of an iconic one—a life-size, high-contrast photo of a woman (I wonder who is this “Kari-Ann?”) In her large, large hair are images superimposed of the band members. Ian Hunter, naturally with sunglasses. Really excellent longtime rhythm section Dale Griffin and Overend Watts (both who had sadly passed away before that 2018 tour. But the “new guys,” Morgan Fisher and madman “Ariel Bender” (Luther Grosvenor) were playing. All of them—in the model’s hair, on the cover—had great hair. At the 2018 show—when I looked around the audience, I estimated that about 80% (including me) were balding.

I’ll put it on for the… what? Maybe 2000^th time… see what it sounds like. My first observation is really obvious—so much so, I guess, that I failed to ponder it over the years and listenings—there’s a funny intro at the beginning of “The Golden Age of Rock’n’Roll” (“Ladies and gentlemen…”) which kind of sets the whole album up as a kind of theatrical show—which it really is—kind of an album length hard rock opera. It’s not really hard rock—though it is, too—that would be the guitar element. The piano, strings, horns, backing vocals, and ridiculously complex song structures and over-the-top production is pure showtune. All of that can be heard in the in the second song, “Marionette,” which is kind of a mini-hard-rock-opera within the opera. (A theatrical production would feature, no doubt, full-on puppet show.) Third song already, “Alice,” is the best on the record (my opinion, but while I’m at it, I’ll say it’s the best ever Mott the Hoople and/or Ian Hunter song). At the risk of sounding like YouTube comments, I’d say this song is one of the most overlooked five minutes in the entire history of rock’n’roll. Rather than attempt to say why and fail, I’ll just leave it up to the reader who has forgotten it to give it another listen… and for those who’ve never heard it… well.

I just noticed that “Crash Street Kidds” has two “Ds” on Kidds—why? Usually that indicates a name (though, not “Billy the Kid”). By coincidence, right now, I’m reading (it’s a long book) Dhalgren, by Samuel R. Delany, which also came out in 1974. The main character is sometimes “Kid” and sometimes “Kidd”—could it be possible that the hyperliterate Ian Hunter was reading it? Who knows. The only song not written by Hunter, “Born Late ’58” is by Overend Watts (and sung by him). It was my favorite on the record for a long time—though always inextricably connected to a gin blackout—maybe a deprogramming would be in order by this point. Also, when I was 14, I didn’t care for “Trudi’s Song” or “Through the Looking Glass” (the ballads), but now I love those songs. That’s one change, over time. “Pearl ’n’ Roy (England)” is probably my second favorite on the record, and another rock showtune. As is “Roll Away the Stone,” which is the perfect bookend with “The Golden Age…” and closes out the show.

I never noticed, on the bottom of the lyrics inner sleeve, a “Write Mott” address: c/o Josephine Targo/114 7^th Avenue/New York 10011. I tried searching, but just got a ham & cheese croissant on TikTok—which just made me tired. Zillow shows a closet with a kitchenette for a million dollars. It’s hard to search Manhattan—even the ghosts have been priced out. Record company person? Fan club? Who knows. At one point, when I first heard about (and read some of) those 33 1/3 books—each one about a record—I loved the idea so much I thought I might submit a proposal. My idea was to write about this record. I never got any further than thinking a lot about it. Their requirements for book proposals are pretty rigorous (as it should be), and I didn’t think I was up to the deep dive this album (and Mott the Hoople) deserves. It would be a shame not to interview Ian Hunter and the other surviving band members, for one thing. Maybe someone’s written one of those books about this record, or another Mott LP, by now—I haven’t checked lately. I think it’s a deceptively difficult project—I mean that size and scope of a book. Not easy to write something that lengthy about a record (especially one you love) without fluff—and at the same time—if it’s your favorite record ever—that short. But hey, now that I’m thinking about it again, maybe I’ll give it another try.

Tommy Roe “We Can Make Music”

As big a fan of Tommy Roe as I was, when I was nine, I have no idea why I didn’t search out any of his other records. Maybe that was a concept that I didn’t really understand at that time. There was no internet, of course, so where exactly would you go to check out someone’s discography? When did I even first learn that word? Tommy Roe’s first records (singles) came out in 1960—the year I was born—and he’s still with us! Not a ton of records—but a ton of hits! I probably got the single, “Dizzy” when it came out in 1969, and followed that with his 1970 retrospective LP—and then I didn’t buy anything by him until recent years. This one is from 1970, and it’s excellent—I wish I would have bought it when I was ten. The album’s opener, the first lines that are sung: “Come on Julie, touch me with your fingers,” would have freaked me the fuck out. (It’s personal.) The album cover is the kind I particularly like—an actual photograph in a real place—someone’s backyard, it looks like—Tommy Roe wearing a tux, posing with a big ol’ dog. Not a lot of info, but one clue as to why it’s (and Tommy Roe’s hits are) so good—among musicians thanked: Hal Blaine, Joe Osborne, Larry Knechtel, and others… Wrecking Crew. All the songs are okay, but particular standouts are: “The Greatest Love” (Joe South),“Traffic Jam” (Roe and Mac Davis), “Pearl” (Roe and Freddy Weller), “King of Fools” (Roe), a nice version of “Close to You,” and my favorite on the record, “Stir It Up and Serve It” (Roe/Weller)—a very groovy culinary-metaphor number (I’m always a sucker for those).

Skeeter Davis “Skeeter Sings Standards”

What if I had I heard this record having never heard—or heard of—Skeeter Davis? That is the challenge. I enjoy these kinds of mental experiments—but honestly, I can’t really imagine hearing her sing for the first time. That’s what I’m thinking during the heart-melting first song, “When I Fall in Love.” I guess the question would be, would I have fallen in love with her at that moment? First listening, first song? I think so. It’s just the quality of her voice. I guess there’s a lot more to it—the songs, arrangements, just generally her style—but the solid foundation of everything here is Skeeter Davis’ voice, which is just there—nostalgic, romantic, reassuring, solid, and even kind of weird (in a way I can’t really articulate). Which often leads me to think—why is it that I don’t always listen to one of her records—at least once a day? Because life is finite.

Anyway, it’s an excellent record with beautiful arrangements, including some odd touches I haven’t noticed on her other records (that I’ve heard—still haven’t heard them all!) such as some plaintive, orchestral horns, and subtle vibes. Standards, of course, all popular songs, though some I’m unfamiliar with—but either way, they’re all made new—which is exactly what you should do when performing a standard. Of the songs I’m well familiar with, there are some unusual approaches, like with: “All of Me,” “Fly Me to the Moon,” “Secret Love,” I Wanna Be Loved by You,” “Smile,” and “Cry Me a River.” They all sound fresh here—even though I’ve heard those songs a million times.

The album cover really looks all of 1965, I guess, with the title and song list in a white band across the top, along with the RCA Victor logo. The photo of Skeeter Davis is oddly dark, but maybe it’s just the printing—who knows. It looks great dark, in a way—it’s supposed to be in her “music room,” I’m guessing—and maybe it really is. She’s wearing a crazy orange dress with a fur hem and gold and rhinestones around the neck. She’s sitting on a big old sofa, looking through sheet music, selecting songs to sing, I guess. Behind her looks like a records shelf, and there’s a speaker there that looks like one of the Advent speakers I had in the Seventies (though they didn’t exist until 1967). The liner notes are always good—these by Ken Grant of KNUZ, Houston—are particularly fine. Besides some of the more glowing words about Skeeter Davis I’ve read, he also mentions producer Chet Atkins, and arrangers Anita Kerr and Harold Ragsdale. Best of all, he describes Skeeter’s live performances, in which her open, honest personality shines through—due to her charm, ad-libbing, and love for the audience. It makes me sad that I never had the chance to see her.

It’s hard to choose, but I think my favorite song on the record is “You Tell Me Your Dream,” which is a great title, and a fascinating song, and has one of those spoken intros (and short, spoken part in the middle) that I really love. I was not familiar with this one, but I guess it goes way back—to the Twenties and Thirties. A lot of people recorded it, of course, but not quite like this one. Well, every song on this record is great—and they are quite different from each other. They get better after repeat listenings, too. It was one of my promises to myself (aka resolutions) for the new year—to write shorter reviews—to try for one paragraph—but there was just a lot I wanted to say about this one. I could go on, too… because the last time I listened to this, I had to think that maybe it’s my favorite of all the Skeeter Davis records I’ve ever heard. Which would pretty much make it my favorite record, period—so… good way to start out the year! I didn’t see that coming!