Astute (or slightly insane) readers of the DJ Farraginous “blog” may recall an interesting mention of Gino Vannelli. Back in school, my friend Scott Suter was my hero after he turned me on to Mott the Hoople (first I’d heard of that band), so when he recommended this record, I rushed out and bought it… and I was… disillusioned. Oh, well, maybe I wasn’t ready for it, as a 16-year-old—and ol’ SS was simply more sophisticated. It sounds much better to me now—though, perhaps, barely. I love songs about the year at hand—generally—the one here, however— “A New Fix For ’76”—is the low point of Side One. But the ballads—which I certainly would have dismissed as a rambunctious lad—appeal to me, now, in my mellow years. The internet helps—briefly, GV is originally from Montreal, is relatively young, and is still out their touring—that makes me happy. You could reach GV, back then, via a New Orleans P.O. box (listed below the credits)—maybe you still can. The album cover is kind of incredible—glossy black with glowing white piano keys, and backlit GV and his giant hair. The inside gets even more lycanthropic—bandmembers’ disembodied heads, each seeming to have been radiated with some kind of follicle fertilizer. You kinda gotta see it. Side Two consists of a composition called: “WAR SUITE: Prelude to The War, The Battle Cry, To The War, Carnal Question, After the Last Battle, To The War (Reflection), Summers of My Life.” And they fit it all in. The limitations (in length) of the vinyl era (as opposed to the CD era) were often an undeniable strength. That last number, “Summers…” is technically credited as part of WAR SUITE—but it’s definitely a departure—quite welcome—and it’s my mellow favorite of the record.
Archive for February, 2024
Where did I get this record? I’m guessing it strolled in while I was sleeping, like my dreams of imaginary cities. I never heard of this band, and the cover (close-up of a male-model-looking astronaut likely floating in space, looking back at Earth—a poetic visual representation of the title) most likely didn’t compel me to fork out record store dollars. I’m not even crazy about owning contemporary (2016) vinyl—on the shelf, it takes up twice the space as old records, and when moving-time comes, that mega-gram stuff adds up. If anyone wants this, and would like to stop by, it’s yours. I figured it would be one of those records I’d listen to once and write something amusing about (it’s a lot easier to be funny when you’re writing a negative review), but alas, I like the record—I like the production, and the playing, and the singing, and in particular, I really like some of the catchy, even intriguing, pop songs. They remind me of someone/something, but I can’t put my finger on it—not surprising, in that I’m pretty ignorant of the last quarter-century-plus of “indie” music. On the other hand, the music is about fifty-percent someone else’s cup of tea. There’s a website with slightly less info than the minimalist album cover—it opens up, revealing the most basic credits on one side, and on the other side, under what looks like a full solar eclipse, a poem. Or it could lyrics, which, by the way, I can understand as sung—but nothing reaches out and grabs me (which is fine, even good)—and I’m too lazy to dwell on them. That brings me around to the name of the band. What does it mean? I’m not going to make a dumb guess because it might be a fairly obvious literary allusion I’m not getting. Or it might simply be two rather good words that, when placed one after another, it’s safe to assume have not been used anytime recently to describe French fries, sell SUVs, on a fascism promoting hat, or as a fucking online game.
Brenda Russell “Get Here”
When the opportunity presents itself (cheap vinyl) I’ll buy records by anyone named “Randy” (my first name)—or with the same last name as mine. Over the years, this has proved a fine strategy (Randy Newman, Leon Russell, Randy Lee, Randy California, etc. [though… the jury’s still out on Bobby Russell])—though, sometimes, and occasionally, not. But it’s always worth a try. I heard about Brenda Russell way back, at some point—she’s got a long career—here and there—but never heard any of her records. So I picked this one up when I saw a super-clean copy. It kind of confused me—the cover art—a photo of Brenda Russell, treated to look like a painting—on a clean, white background—looks totally contemporary. Yet the record is from 1988—which is eons ago. Yet… I don’t normally buy records that are this “new.” Confused yet? Well, time is relative. I like movies from the Seventies—but for children’s books, that’s way too new—Thirties and Forties, I like much better. With records, 1972 through 1974 is the three-year period I’m drawn to. With tacos, I find them best if they are only a few minutes old.
I guess this music is considered pop, but also R&B—but those categories aren’t really that helpful. The overall sound strikes me as pretty much an Eighties style of production (which would make sense), but not as flagrantly so as most rock music from this era—it’s more timeless sounding. Faster songs and slower songs—I prefer the slower ones, like “Piano in the Dark”—which has a really catchy chorus—and has an emotional quality—the word “emotion” in the lyrics—and, as you might expect, a very cool solo piano part to conclude it. (According to inner sleeve notes, played by Russell Ferrante). “Le Restaurant” (I’m a sucker for dining establishment themes) is nice—I guess I just like slower songs—which wasn’t the case when I was younger. Something occurred to me—something I also thought about while listening to this last time I listened to it—the song, “Midnight Eyes” (a bouncy one) made me think of that band, Was (Not Was)—a record by them I had way back, “What Up Dog?”—so I looked that up—1988. So that’s interesting. Though… not so much the chorus of that song. A couple of her choruses make me think of James Bond theme songs—you know, the ones from the Eighties and Nineties, I guess—which are often instances when I’m suspectable to a mainstream sound—they’re usually catchy. The title song, here, is good—I like it—another slower, more soulful one. I’m not crazy about this record, but it’s okay. I can keep it around for when I’m in the mood for this kind of thing (which happens more and more often, these days).
Frank Sinatra “The Voice” EP
How many records start out with the words: “A cigarette…” Well, probably far too many—or maybe just this one. I have (and may have written about) the LP version of this record (both from 1955)—which probably has twelve songs, while this has four. The funny thing is, they have the exact same photo—a portrait of young Frank Sinatra, smiling, with a pool-table-green background—it’s just that this one is a “closeup” of his face—on cardboard scaled down to seven inches. The four songs here are: “These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You),” “Laura,” “She’s Funny That Way,” and “Fools Rush In.” Those are four of the best. These are older recordings… I’m not sure how many times Sinatra recorded each of these songs, but this quiet, ballad style of his older recordings—with minimal orchestra—well, it’s there, but voice in the foreground—I really like. If this was the only Sinatra record I owned—well, that’d be very sad—but I’d really have the essence of this era Sinatra. These are four seriously romantic, melancholy, mellow, sad songs. Is there anything in contemporary pop music this quiet and beautiful? Well, I’m sure there is—I just don’t know contemporary pop music. The only thing that comes to mind, for me, is Lana Del Rey.
One odd and funny extraneous detail here: the random song review selector picked two four-song EPs in a row—this one, and previously, the Iron Oxide record. So, similar format—very different approach to sonic output—but I like them both a lot. The really weird thing is, this record is also pressed on coffee-colored vinyl! I’m just kidding. It’s black (licorice-colored vinyl)—ho hum. But I almost thought it was for a second, because the label is that that older, red Columbia label—it’s a dark red, I think it’s carmine—almost maroon—which I like much better (including the lettering and style) than that red Columbia label (I think of it as contemporary—but I guess it’s the one from the Seventies). I’m always picking on the Columbia label—I don’t know why. Ubiquitous and boring? I’m sure I’d change my tune if I was signed to Columbia—don’t things always work that way? That nightmarish four-wheeled contraption, spewing toxic clouds and green fluid—once you get the keys—goes from hideous beast to love of your life.
Iron Oxide “Bass Response EP”
Iron Oxide is a “Noise” band from Cleveland, Ohio—Jeff Curtis and K Stewart—I’ve known both of them for some time and I played in several bands with JC. I believe they refer to themselves as a noise band, but I’m not sure—still, that would be my assessment—though, at one time, similar music might have been called “industrial” or “no wave” or “experimental” or even “punk.” What’s in a label? I don’t know if they’re still performing as Iron Oxide, but I did have the pleasure of seeing a live show featuring them back in 2013, at a bowling alley, memorable for me because of the inspiring performance—at one point Stewart “played” a taco.
This is a 2005 release—it’s an “EP,” due to having two songs a side, I suppose—though it’s 45 RPM. I suppose you could try playing it at 33 RPM—though it’s not recommended. It’s got an attractive red and black cover with some stylized “modern” art which would have been comfortable in the Sixties. There are humorous liner notes, written in an odd way that makes you feel a bit off-balance—my take is that the style mimics English as a second language—and is somewhat a parody of the “audiophile” records from… I guess, the Fifties and Sixties, which exploited the new (at least for the squares in the suburbs) fetishization of hi-fidelity sound equipment. The label is “Coffee-Hut Records” (named after Youngstown, Ohio’s legendary Coffee Hut), and the vinyl, which initially appears black, when you hold it up to the light reveals that it is actually coffee colored! It’s the best vinyl color I’ve ever seen—and may be the only coffee-colored vinyl in existence (though probably not—it’s a big world).
There are four songs. Starting with Side A: “Anglegrinder”—a word which describes it well—just in the title. An instrumental. I don’t think I have the authority to elaborate. Next is a cover, “Not Moving”—which is a DNA song, written by Robin Crutchfield. There is singing in this one, lyrics I can’t make out, except for the chorus: “Not moving, not moving, etc.” This also features the Farfisa organ, and some complex noises, the origin of which I can barely guess. Oddly, I recognize this song! From the DNA tracks on the “No New York” record, a concise document of some 1970s downtown New York “No Wave” bands. I’ve told this story before, but it’s a funny one—after I worked at the Strand Bookstore for a year, 1985, 1986—I moved back to Ohio, and reunited with my records (didn’t lug them to NYC), I got out the “No New York” LP and said, jokingly, let’s see if there’s anyone I know on here—and then noticed Robin Crutchfield, who worked at the Strand. Sadly, I hadn’t gotten to know him—he had worked in a spooky computer shack in the warehouse (as I recall). There’s a lesson here (which I still haven’t learned—because I’m not exactly sure what it is).
Side B starts off with a live song called “Heat Death”—again, an apt title. If you can imagine the massive gush of flame coming from the mouth of one of those dinosaur-like Japanese monster movie monsters, you’ve got the first part—followed by something less menacing, but no less grim, like a haunted sawmill, back in operation just for the hell of it. It’s not unlike the unknowable drone coming from some part of the hi-rise apartment building they built next door to me during the lockdown—except that noise is unpleasant and ceaseless. The song on the record is intriguing and… it ends. Then, finally, another Farfisa song, the organ part repetitive enough to make you second-guess your needle’s dedication to the groove’s progression inward. Interesting—the organ is about six inches in front of you, and then further back there is what sounds like something happening—involving barrels and electricity—but I mean really, really further back—like a block away—yet in the same building. Then it ends, confidently. Did I mention that there are multiple bass parts, throughout—I’m guessing electric bass—bass guitar—not the fish.
Kim Carnes “Mistaken Identity”
I was working at Trophy World, downtown Sandusky, Ohio, the first part of 1981, fulltime, and usually it was slow—the last of the watching-the-clock jobs—a clock with hands that didn’t move—I didn’t know any better. The worst thing, though, was the Top 40 radio that “had” to be on while the store was open. I’m sure my boss didn’t care for it any more than I did, but I wasn’t smart enough to—I don’t know—confident enough, to… change the station? Anyway, what I remember from that time is horrible, soul-shriveling, psychically-wounding hit songs, the same dozen or so every hour, day after day. There was only one exception—“Bette Davis Eyes.” I had no idea who this Kim Carnes was, but I wanted to date her. I do remember an annoying video. (But that may have been later? Anyway, I didn’t care for music videos—and like them even less, now.) I think I even bought the single (well, I owned one for a while, don’t possess it now). I recently picked up this $3 LP, curious as to the rest of it. Did I ever see this record? Besides the annoying ransom note graphic (it’s okay), there’s a great photo of Kim Carnes in a creepo setting—but wearing a very pretty dress. Is she in the Witness Protection Program? Behind her, there’s a guy with an unworldly slim waist (or is it a woman?), white shirt and suspenders and shoulder holster—watching out a window. The back cover photo is pure David-Lynch-Land.
As you might expect, nothing else on the record sounds like “Bette Davis Eyes.” It’s really kind of a bummer, in that the songs are okay, for the most part, and I love Kim Carnes’ singing, and the production isn’t particularly bad for an Eighties record—but overall, production and arrangements sound like 1981—which is well along in an era of pop music that I just can’t get into. When looking at records I don’t know anything about, if I see it’s from 1981 (really, 1977 or later), I won’t touch it, because chances are, I won’t be able to listen to it more than once. But I’m trying to give this record more of a chance than I normally would. You could probably fool someone into thinking “Break the Rules Tonite” is a Rod Stewart song—at least right at the beginning—it’s sounds like that later blues rock I can do without—way too coked up. Anyway, he’s the singer that Kim Carnes most sounds like. “When I’m Away from You” is a great song, actually—you could fit it right on the second side of “Every Picture Tells a Story” and (until it goes on for too long) fool someone into thinking it’s always been there.
“Bette Davis Eyes” was written by Donna Weiss and Jackie “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” DeShannon in 1974 (which is a year I particularly like, for music). I had never thought to look up her original recording of that song (until now) and it’s shocking how different it is—the original is a good song, but not particularly exciting (unless you were really concentrating on the lyrics)—the arrangement is pretty mainstream and way too jaunty. It’s pretty cool that Kim Carnes and her band decided to make that song into something else entirely—something unusual, a little weird, and certainly inspired—it’s honestly too good to have become a number one hit song—but there you go. A combination of that distinctive synth sound, the simplicity of the arrangement, Kim Carnes’ excellent singing, and some great lyrics. I particularly always loved that inspired rhyme: “precocious” (and later, “ferocious”)—in the middle of a line— rhymed with “pro blush” at the end of the next line. It’s a not quite a rhyme, and the rhythm is weird, and who would ever say: “what it takes to make a pro blush?” Which makes those lyrics poetry—and me still able to listen to this song—and remember being 21, and this brief reprieve from time standing still.
If you’re wondering how many Mickey Newbury records I have, the answer is eight. This one is from 1978—wasn’t the Eighties yet—still the decade of the bleak and hopeless. It’s got a very weird cover photo—it’s super grainy, color washed out except for the reds that pop out. It’s a low angle shot of a young, barefoot girl in a white dress, carrying a large, red flower. I don’t know if she is a young girl, actually, or a small, young woman. She appears to have brown skin, fairly dark, though the photo is low-light so it’s hard to tell. You also can’t tell her nationality, for sure. Even though the photo is somewhat blurry and abstracted, you definitely get a sense that she’s overwhelmed—maybe frightened. In the foreground are painted street lines—she’s in a city street, maybe very early in the morning. In the background, the bottoms of enormous skyscrapers. Also, some older buildings and a “Jesus Saves” sign. I find it a little disturbing—and what does it mean? Will the clues be in the lyrics to one of the songs? All I can do is listen and speculate.
It’s a quiet, melancholy record, really pretty songs, with forlorn lyrics. Everything is very quiet and understated. There’s only one jaunty hillbilly song (“Gone to Alabama”) and even that takes a soulful turn. There are plenty of Jesus references (the title song, in particular, which is a traditional Christian song), but it’s all about needing the strength to go on. That is, it’s not about glory, but about survival. My favorite on the record is “It Don’t Matter Anymore”—a particularly pretty song—it’s short and sweet, and bleak. Mickey Newbury can write a beautiful song, that’s for sure. They are pretty much all beautiful on this record—it may be my favorite of his yet. I think I’ll leave this one out for a while and treat it like I just bought it at the 1978 store and see what it does to me. I guess I’m thinking that the cover might have something to do with the first song—“Juble Lee’s Revival,” because it’s also the last song, “Juble Lee’s Revival Shout”—I’m not really sure what it’s about, but it’s certainly peering, somewhat, into the abyss, by the end. As is the whole record, to some degree.
The astute reader (of this blog) (is there such a person?) will note that I reviewed Sammi Smith’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night” Mega Records LP on March 19, 2021—and I just went back and read that one (I rarely embarrass myself by deliberately re-reading my old shit)—and I can live with that write-up—in fact, I’ll even recommend it. So why am I reviewing it again? Well, it’s not the same record. As far as I know, there might be any number of her records with that title, seeing how if you have a big country song hit (the title song in question), they’ll repackage it and resell it for as long as there’s good ol’ boys, truck-stops, and honky-tonks. The label is Hilltop/Pickwick, who I guess re-released budget versions of popular records, which you’ll be able to keep finding until the end of time (or as long as there are antique and thrift stores). So how are these records different, and which one is better? First of all, the one I’m writing about now has a blue cover with a pixilated (TV image, or unintentional sci-fi holographic image) portrait of Sammi Smith that is quite beautiful. Seeing how these budget re-releases are often half-assed in the art department, it’s like someone got really lucky—or what I like to imagine—someone really cared. The back cover has four nice black and white photos of her. It’s one of those records where the back cover is literally a big sheet of paper that appears to have been glued on a bit too wetly—or maybe someone has spilled beer on it.
Both are 1970, or ’71 (depending on the release)—and I’ll refer to the other one as Mega and this one as Hilltop—and hope that doesn’t sound too much like a monster truck grudge match. Well, they are close to the same record—they have five songs in common, including the title song, and what was originally the title song (before “Help Me…” became such a big hit, I guess)—which is a great song called “He’s Everywhere.” I’m not kidding—it would be the best song on any country record it appeared on (possibly including this one, depending on how passionate you are about the Kristofferson). “He’s Everywhere” was written by Gene Dobbins and Jean Whitehead—who I know nothing about (after a fruitless five-minute internet search). Well… there’s this tidbit: On an early 1970s David Bowie US tour, goofing on the tour bus, Mick Ronson came up with an “iconic” riff—to which Bowie replied, “What can I sing to that, mate, ’sides ‘I’m a man,’ etc.?” At which point Sammi Smith’s “He’s Everywhere” came on the radio (they were in the South). After stopping at a payphone to call the radio station, Bowie discovered the singer’s identity, as well as the name of the songwriting duo, which was the seed of the lyrics to “The Jean Genie.” Believe it or else. You heard it here first, folks. But anyway, I simply like to imagine them as a Nashville songwriting team who, after a long, successful session, would stop in a diner together and get greeted as “Jean and Gene.”
So, anyway, not the same record. The Mega has six songs not on this one (including “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down”)—but also, this one (Hilltop) has four songs not on the Mega, including a couple really fine ones—“Isn’t It Sad” and “Then You Walk In.” I mean, they’re all good, but those two are killer (and I’m assuming are on other Sammi Smith records, but I’m not going to look it up). The Hilltop is shorter (only nine songs) and no liner notes—so, if I had to recommend one, I’d go with the Mega. But why not just buy both? They printed a lot of these records, so you can easily find them (they’re the easiest Sammi Smith LPs to find)—and they shouldn’t be a lot of money. I can tell you, right now, where to find this one (the Hilltop) (as well as the other, for that matter) for $3 each—if you’re in Milwaukee—Clocktower Antiques, 1134 S. 1st Street—the second floor, the guy who’s got a ton of $3 records—in the “Country” section. Actually, my copy (I’m listening to it now) really does sound like someone spilled beer on it—it’s a little scratchy—so I might beat you over there and buy myself a second copy.
A nice doo-wop 45 from 1959—an old record, from before I was born. You would think I might have some deeply rooted nostalgia for doo-wop—but I just don’t—I’ve never been that big a fan, and I don’t even have any memories of similar music as a young kid. I must have heard some on the radio when I was really young, but I just don’t recall it. But hearing it on this record makes me happy—maybe it’s because of the ancient, organic medium—45 RPM record, that is. Odd… it kind of sounds like it’s from—not just many, many generations ago—but from another era. Era, I guess it is. Or is it an epoch? Era or epoch? Maybe it’s because it’s playing at home on my cobbled together system. Pure analog warmth. I can enjoy it. There’s a little bit about this band on the internet—they were from Long Island. It sounds like they had a bunch of records out. Another cool thing about this one is the really excellent looking label: “Ribbon”—which is a black background with a kind of cartoon-drawing orange ribbon—it’s quite attractive. The songs—“I Can’t Say Goodbye”—a lament to a lapsed lover—and “What Did I Do Wrong”—the hard questions posed to a lapsed lover (though maybe he’s simply asking himself)—are not real great sentiments. Melancholy, sure, and a little pathetic. But the guitar on the second one—kind of a Hawaiian guitar sound (to me, anyway) gives it a bit of a surreal flavor that I really like.
Where did this record come from? It’s a three-song promo 33 1/3 seven-inch that came as a bonus with the “Armed Forces” LP—in 1979. Much later, a full-length recording of the show was released. This one, dated 1978 (the date of the show), consists of the songs: “Accidents Will Happen,” “Alison,” and “Watching the Detectives.” There isn’t much to recommend this little record (except that it’s little)—unless you like live recordings (I don’t, generally). It’s got a paper cover with a bold, primary-color, paint-spatter design—that all these years haven’t managed to foment, for me, anything in the nostalgia bin. Speaking of which—I’m still tired of two of these songs—heard them too much—and probably always will be. And they’re fine songs—just heard them too much. The exception is “Alison,” which has always been my favorite Elvis Costello song. The loud, fast, aggressive, and angry stuff doesn’t age well—at least not to me—but a lovely sounding pop love song does—and this is a particularly good one. Well, it’s angry, too, but also sad, and there’s some ambiguity among the lyrics. And there’s definitely some sadness and regret—which goes really well with just how totally pretty the song is.
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