The Electric Prunes “Mass in F Minor”

I felt like I had a handle on The Electric Prunes (unless I got them mixed up with the Chocolate Overcoat), but I never pegged them as Christian rockers—so what gives? So I had to resort to the ol’ ’ternet and got something like this: after the band’s first couple of records, their producer hired a classically trained composer to write this religious based concept record—but the guys in the band couldn’t play the crap—so they brought in studio musicians. That’s the crazy Sixties for you! (If they’d asked my opinion, I would have suggested, at that point, that they rename the band—The Eclectic Prunes.) I can only imagine some turmoil there, but the good thing—some version of the Prunes is still together to this day! Oh, wait, that first song, “Kyrie Eleison” is familiar—it’s in Easy Rider—I think the gross dinner scene in New Orleans, just before they get wasted at the cemetery. It’s a scene that always really creeped me out for some reason—it must have been this music! (It’s almost as creepy as the dinner at the commune, earlier, with the mean hippie.) I guess I have to credit that movie, anyway, for compelling me to give psychedelics a wide berth! (I had enough problems with the store-bought and all.) Anyway, I almost took this 1967 record off the player and flung it somewhere—within minutes—if I wanted to listen to chanting, I’d put on beads and an itchy brown robe. Which might be appropriate—after all, the name of the record kind of spells it out—and the cover shows a silver crucifix hanging from some multicolored beads, hovering over what I can only guess is an… itchy brown robe. The back cover, however, is a collage of b&w band photos, with instruments, including one with a dude playing an autoharp—and that one must have sold me. I mean, there is some fine guitar, bass, and drums here, but chanting in Latin—it makes me want to run in any other direction. And I took Latin in high school—wait… maybe that’s at the heart of my aversion. Though, I’ve gotta say, it’s kinda growing on me. (Don’t know what, exactly.) Could work as mood music—if your evening includes incense, bota bags, and shrooms.

Frank Sinatra “Nice ‘n’ Easy”

On the cover is a black and white photo of Frank Sinatra looking exactly like Frank Sinatra—while at the same time looking exactly like your average, young to middle-aged, middle to upper middleclass, white, clean-cut, suburban American man, reclining in an easy chair, button-up sweater, open collar, hands behind his head, comfortable smile. It occurs to me that if you didn’t know that hands behind the head pose (using the hands, fingers clasped, as a headrest) (some cultures might not know it?) —that it would be very weird indeed, as if you were holding your brains in your skull, manually. It doesn’t even say “Frank Sinatra” on the cover! You’ve got to know that face. The only words (besides the Capitol logo in the corner) is the title—in small-case, jaunty, orange and red font with an asterisk filling in for the dotted “i” dot— “nice ‘n’ easy” —a font and title that says: “this is a Doris Day romantic comedy” as clearly as if it said those words. And it very well may be, actually—wait, I have to look that up. No. No movie by that name. But it’s the look (font), for the Doris Day movies of that era. It’s also a Clairol product, same font—it’s almost by law that the phrase must be rendered in jaunty, breezy, all small-case. Someone put out an “easy listening” collection with that title. But as far as albums go, this is in some ways (if this is even possible) the most Sinatra Sinatra record—if that makes sense. Slightly over the hill, 100% confident, on the edge of doing this in his sleep. The photo on the back cover, however, shows him being busy, now at work—white shirt and loosened tie, jacket removed, standing among sheet music, sheet music in one hand—I assume he’s in the studio with the Nelson Riddle orchestra, but the background is blackened, like there are no walls—only eternity.

This record came out in 1960—the year I was born—and it may well have played me to sleep in my crib—and may be as close to defining the musical side of my brain as anything—though, I’m not entirely sure my parents had this one. But likely. Certainly, the songs, here and there, are my growing up soundtrack—including the title track, “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” “You Go to My Head,” “Fools Rush In,” “She’s Funny That Way,” and “Embraceable You”—all songs I sing in my dreams. These (as well as six others) must be among the most mellow versions of these songs that Sinatra ever recorded—slow, quiet, slightly melancholy, no fireworks, but deeply moving. Three paragraphs of uncredited liner notes sound like the writeup on one of those Jackie Gleason mood music records—and I suppose this is not so different, but with vocals—and you might put this on during a quiet dinner with cocktails—introduction to the romantic mood—that is, if you aren’t too worried about Sinatra being a disruptive presence—even at his most mellow, he kind of takes over the room. I’m not bothering to look up Sinatra’s discography to see where this fits in (because his discography takes up a half day of bandwidth) but it came just after “No One Cares” (one of my favorite barstool classics) at the end of the Fifties. Turning point? Not really—but certainly the date was—no other calendar shift seemed so epic. But it’s Sinatra’s world—and it seemed like every other record had an exclamation point in the title, interspaced with records featuring sad clown pics with tears and cocktails. Kind of weird, no exclamation point here (just that asterisk), but I heard a rumor that the zippy title track replaced “The Nearness of You” (“at the last minute”)—a song which would have fit the mood better, in my opinion. And if you think about it, Sinatra probably has released countless sets of a dozen songs that would be more aptly titled “Nice ‘n’ Easy” than this one. And this one might have been better titled “That Old Feeling” (2^nd song on the record). Oh, well, another wrinkle of the ol’ Sinatra discography—which is always fun to pore over if you’ve got half a day to kill.

The Jam “Going Underground” / “The Dreams of Children”

Here’s an odd bit of business: I was recently going back to some of my favorite music from 40 and 50 years ago and finding that some of it doesn’t hold up for me. It’s hard to believe I liked it so much. But there’s a good side to that, too: Sometimes I can “discover” music that I once totally dismissed and despised—and hearing it now—I’m surprised to find it compelling. Not totally unrelated: Today’s random selection—two three-minute songs from The Jam on a 1980 promo 45—where’d I get it? Who knows—but since today’s fickle pointer descended on it, I’m going to do an experiment and predict my reaction before hearing it. One word: Lukewarm. For most punk bands, it was over by 1980—already planning their county fair reunion tours. Not that The Jam were a punk band, really—they were a really good pop band—but they played faster and with more energy than anyone—or were right up there. (There were some real coffee drinkers back then.) I remembered writing about—in the early days of this site—four The Jam LPs I used to have—so I went back and looked over those reviews. Interesting—I was expecting to hate them, by then, but found myself loving those records. So… weird. This single dates just after that—what will it sound like?

I wish I could say I was wrong, but both songs sound about like I expected—like The Jam—high energy pop songs with good jangly guitar and expressive bass—lyrics-wise what we used to call “political” songs—about social issues, etc., which is nice. But music-wise, I’m not feeling it. I don’t particularly like “Going Underground,” and I don’t think it’s gonna grow on me. There’s way too much happening, structurally, musically—it could have ended in several places before it did. They managed to make three minutes feel like 30. Too much going on for a pop song—or, really, for a mini-series. “The Dreams of Children” is more interesting, at least on first listen. But it grows old fast—again, overly complicated for what it is. Both of these songs could benefit by being, each, half as long. Oh well, now it seems a little ironic that the last The Jam record I own is this one—that I don’t even like—and I wish I had those first four LPs that I lost. Some advice to the kids—try to hang onto your old records for as long as you can (or whatever equivalent objects of importance from your younger days might be). There may come a time when you’re glad to dust them off and rediscover them.

Paul Horn “Dream Machine”

One nice thing about checking out a new (well, 1978) record is the excuse to go back and listen to others by that artist—in this case, the excellent “Visions” from 1974—and seeing if that short span of years is as catastrophic here as for many recording artists. Certainly, you wouldn’t connect the two album covers—from hippie drawing (that one) to this one’s larger-than-life, full headshot, which looks like the promotional poster for a motivational speaker. Nice. Recorded a week after my 18^th birthday—not a record I would have bought my first year of college (when I budgeted one LP per week)—so it’s just had to wait for me somewhere for 46 years—ha! The next thing that catches your eye (back cover credits) (besides a list of excellent musicians) is Lalo Schifrin (“Composed, Arranged & Conducted by”)-—so this is kind of also a Lalo Schifrin record. But it’s first of all a Paul Horn record—it’s a flute record—flute from start to finish. I like it. All the musicians are good—what stands out to me most (besides flute) is some of the bass playing. Credited is Abraham Laboriel. As with flute, I’m no great judge of bass playing, but I know what I like, and some of these lines make me stop and wonder if I’ve left something burning on the stove.

As for the songs, I most associate Lalo Schifrin with some great movie scores—so will this be one of those records I’m best able to relate to by envisioning movie scenes? Why not. Six instrumentals that may as well be named anything, so maybe. The first one, though excellent, doesn’t take me anywhere, specifically, so I’m going to engage my imagination more. Next one, I’m seeing a slightly futuristic world and we’re following some kind of cop (naturally) through his daily rituals. This is the future where the cars got much cooler (as opposed to the one we’re living in) and 1970’s fashions (including moustaches) stuck around. Next song is a deal going down. Side Two starts with a kind of split-personality song that alternates from “too cool to even be bothered” to TV show about a well-adjusted high school teacher who only helps kids get the highest SAT scores possible and has no dark side. And then… a song called, “Quite Early One Morning,” which is, as you’d expect, quiet, meditative—one of those mornings more focused on beauty, mortality, and the meaning of life than, say, coffee. But, as coffee is as inevitable as death, we progress into the day with a sad coolness. Finally, then, “The Juggler” is a bit clownish—and since I find a happy clown unbearable, I’m imposing my own sense of irony on the proceedings and choosing to imagine a protagonist who juggles love affairs, bank accounts, and wellbeing—with disaster. The End.