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.
Archive for the '1960s' Category
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” (2nd 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.
File under “songs with numbers in the titles.” Weirdly, the A-side sounds too fast, and the B-side too slow—but at least “3625” has a nice groove to it—and a great title (“3625 Groovy Street”)—which is also the chorus—sung in a goofy, singsong by what sounds like three teenage girls. Who are The Wildcats? I’m not spending all day on the internet to (attempt to) find out—so it remains a mystery. Apparently the “Hazlewood” noted as songwriter (both songs) is indeed Lee Hazlewood—one of my favorite songwriters ever. Makes sense, this is on Reprise, and “3625 Groovy Street” sounds like something he’d come up with. “’64” has its moments—a really hot guitar solo, in that old rock’n’roll guitar style—really nice one. The gist of that song is, we’ve learned The Twist, etc., and so forth, but that’s old hat—so what are we gonna do in ’64? “Will it be something strange and new or will it be something old and blue?” That’s the (sung) question. What were the fads in 1964? There was that Troll Doll. Dumb, but much better than Internet Trolls. I don’t know what else. I know there was this record, with some groovy organ and hot guitar and enthusiastic singing teen-sounding girls. For me, personally, I’m sure there was a lot new—being four years old—but I can’t really remember it! Heavy drinking and smoking weed were, for me, still a decade off.
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!
The only thing worse than a novelty record is a live novelty record—but this one, from 1969, has an odd place in my heart. I still have (somehow!) the same record I bought when I was nine years old, though I haven’t actually listened to it for probably near half a century—having turned against it at some point. Hearing it again, now, though, is funny—it brought back the progression of thoughts I had about it over time. It’s written by Shel Silverstein and was a big hit for Johnny Cash, who I used to see on TV—it seemed like regularly—and no doubt at least once singing this one. I liked him, and listening to it now, I can see how compelling he is, even doing a joke song—the band is also very good, stripped down, and tough. Most likely the first thing I noticed, as a kid, was that I was able to understand the irony in the story—a kid’s dad named him Sue in order to toughen him up by having him deal with ridicule. Neither amused nor appreciative of the gesture, the kid spends his young life hunting down his dad to kill him—eventually they fight, but then Dad explains why he did it. After my initial understanding, though, a few alternate ideas set in. Why did this piece of shit parent use such a shortcut? Why didn’t he stick around and maybe teach the kid in a more conventional way? And then, why was the bullying that the kid was subjected to simply accepted as inevitable? The thing that saved the song, for me, was the double ironic twist at the end where the kid appreciates his dad, finally, but vows, if he has kids—a boy—to give him a boy’s name! It’s a good, disarming ending. But I was still bugged by the other problems, and by that time, too, I was beginning to be against fighting. Though, ultimately, the thing that might have turned me against the record was it being overplayed—on TV, the radio, and at home (I only had a handful of choices). A humorous story song like this soon wears out its welcome.
The other side is “San Quentin”—both songs were recorded live at San Quentin Prison—this one written by Johnny Cash. As you might guess, a song in which he sings: “San Quentin… I hate every inch of you…” goes over pretty well among the audience there. The main sentiment of the song, besides hating the prison, is that the experience of prison will do no good as far as changing the prisoner for the better—it’s simply punishment, but there’s no reform—nothing good about it, whatsoever. Again, the band is great, just guitar, bass, and minimal drums, and there’s also some women backup singers, briefly, which I didn’t remember—almost not there—on the instrumental break, singing “San Quentin” all of like two times. I didn’t like this one as much, as a kid, but I think I appreciated the “plain talkin’.” There’s no ironic twist at the end of this song—it’s short and simple. Focusing the hatred on the place, however, rather than the people responsible for the place, is interesting. Plus, he sounds like he’s singing from personal experience—though, in this case, there’s no intriguing admission of shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die (fictional or not). At any rate, he’s convincing—what a voice! —I’m sure when I was a kid, I really believed that he was a hardened criminal. With a voice like that, he could convince you that he’d been retrieved from thirty days in the hole just that morning.
I missed out on Spanky & Our Gang—among the sunshine pop purveyors from the Sixties—too young, so I was more in the bubblegum camp, I guess—I was still watching the Little Rascals version (I was also too young, pretty much, for the Young Rascals). I wonder if I didn’t see them on one of those late-nite rock shows—I guess that’s likely—but they never registered with me. I bought this record solely based on the weird cover—it is acid casualty yellow with red and blue highlights—a photograph of the band high-contrasted to beyond the pleasing. The name of the band is so abstracted I couldn’t make it out until I was at home and worked on it for a while. Five dudes with moustaches (Our Gang) and a woman (Elaine “Spanky” McFarlane) in a band pose, probably wearing normal hippie threads, but because of the extreme pupil-dilation-view, they look like they’re wearing radiation suits. The first thought I had was this was a crew hired to go into dangerous radioactive disaster sites to perform heroic deeds. The inner sleeve is even more psychedelic with kaleidoscopic band images carrying over, even, to the actual label—on Mercury, who I guess humored them, though they couldn’t have been huge stars. Though maybe they were—or it was going that way—this is their third LP, from 1969.
They do that indulgent, annoying thing—naming the sides: “Side A” and “Side 1”—okay, we get it, but that’s not helpful for us not free enough to just put on “whatever” side first. The music is all over the place, from: “Rather annoying, might not put this on again anytime real soon,” to: “I really like that song a lot and want to hear it again and would put it on a mix tape if I still made mix tapes!” So what I’ll do is ignore the stuff I don’t care for and list the stuff I really like—starting with side… I don’t know… whatever. “And She’s Mine” is an infectious pop number—at least until you listen to the lyrics—“She’s good, she’s sweet, she’s kind, and she’s mine”—which strikes me as a little square. “Yesterday’s Rain”—the singer (Spanky?) sounds a little like Grace Slick—and the multiple backup vocal parts are inventive—I’m guessing it’s political (“rain”). As is, “Give a Damn”—and I like the sentiment—made easy to swallow with this soaring approach—which could be the best Pepsi ad ever conceived (Pepsi wishes). “Without Rhyme or Reason” is as smooth as can be, with its Brazilian stylings—and someone’s playing one of those wooden fish, which always cheers me up. “1-3-5-8” is one of those “row row row your boat” vocal goofs (I don’t remember the name of the form), but they really take it to an adult level (should be called “1-3-5-8-11”). “Jane”—another nice pop love song—and I’m guessing it’s about Jane. “Since You’ve Gone” starts out as the prettiest song on the record (my favorite stuff is when Spanky’s singing)—then has a weird bridge that sounds like people “literally” fighting. I don’t know if “you” left (they were fighting) or died (they were really fighting). Pretty and disturbing (an intriguing combination).
The B-side, “The You I Need” is a decent if vapid and jaunty pop song—but did I ever listen to it? Maybe not. Probably once. It’s like two minutes long, yet contains a corny key change. “Dizzy,” however, is a pop love song masterpiece. I personally consider it… not one of the best… but the best. Besides the melody, and the way the low-key verses work with the ascending chorus, it’s the drums (corny, but they make the song) and the strings, which function like another percussion instrument. This might be the first record I ever owned—probably not, but I’m sure one of my first half-dozen 45s (well before I bought LPs). It’s amazing that I still have the exact same record—my initials stuck on the label twice. It’s traveled around with me for 50 years—how did that happen? And it still plays! Not real well, but if it was the last version on Earth, you could live with it. This is one of the records (along with “I Think I Love You”) that I associate with my first crush on a girl, third grade or so. Every time I’d listen to it, then, my heart would practically melt (you know, like the guy in the song). And that went on for years—long after the crush had gone its way. And the weird thing—to this day—the song does the same thing to me. It really does. Which leads me to believe I can’t be trusted. It’s not the best song ever recorded. It’s not even my favorite all-time song. But it’s the purest personal example of nostalgia overwhelming all other faculties.
All this time, and I’ve never even bothered to look up who wrote the song, when the record came out, etc. Okay—1968 release—so third grade, like I thought. I mean, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be an eight-year-old—I guess I always assumed a simple-minded munchkin. Yet… here I was with a full spectrum of emotions and a sophisticated musical appreciation—to the extent that I’ve never grown out of it. That’s kind of incredible. It was written by Tommy Roe (he did write a lot of his hits, I believe) and Freddy Weller, another Sixties singer and songwriter with a similar haircut to Tommy Roe. What was the collaboration like, I wonder, with Tommy and Freddy? And the musicians? Of course… The Wrecking Crew. That doesn’t surprise me at all. Hal Blaine is playing those drums. Jimmie Haskell with the sting arrangement. It was probably part of a day’s work in some LA studio for those cats—I mean, I’m sure they were cool with it—probably happier with some recordings than others. When it became a number one hit, I’m sure that was sweet. But how many people are there, out there, like me, for whom this song is it? A few people covered it, of course, but most notably, Wreckless Eric—one of my all-time favorites. And the first punk band I was in, the Bursting Brains, we even played it (probably at my insistence). One of those “life goals,” ticked off.
Apparently this is a 1968 re-release of the 1962 LP, “High Flying”—though, I like this album cover better than the original— by my favorite vocalese trio—Dave Lambert, Jon Hendricks, and Annie Ross. They’re backed up here by The Ike Isaacs Trio. It’s kind of a post-mortem record—in that they were no longer a band, and also, sadly, Dave Lambert had died in a tragic accident, in 1966.They only put out a handful of records—though maybe they printed a lot—as I come across their records regularly, for not much money. I wonder if they fell out of favor with audiences at some point since their style is a little bizarre, probably considered an acquired taste, and certainly “way-out.” I could imagine both jazz purists and jazz novices being scared off, and others finding the extreme nature of the style off-putting. I don’t know! To me, they are 100% delightful, all the time, and that includes the 11 tracks on this LP. Maybe I’m wrong, and they’re still a big deal with fans—I’m sure they are—that rarified group of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross superfans—my kind of crowd.
I was going to save this one for posting on my Halloween special—(and viola, no H. special)—anyway, the reason for that is because there’s a song called “Halloween Spooks”—which is one of the stranger Halloween-themed songs I’ve heard (written by Dave Lambert). The lyrics are odd enough—“can’t find the children”—that’s kind of alarming! And then there’s some truly otherworldly wailing—but not like you’d imagine—I mean some messed-up, out-there wailing—you have to hear it. Besides that, there’s one great song after another, including three by Horace Silver—two with the word “Cookin’” in the title, including my fav, “Home Cookin’”—which is about soul food. I am partial to songs about food—but of course, it’s about more than just food—there’s a lot to take in—candied yams, collard greens, etc.—but it’s really more about women. It’s kind of an epic, though not exactly a feminist anthem—though, who knows, maybe it is, in a backwards way.
The prettiest song on the record is “Blue” (by Gildo Mahones)—quiet and sad and subtle. (Little else on this record could be accused of being subtle!) My very favorite on the record is “Farmer’s Market”—written by Annie Ross and Art Farmer (get it?)—it reminds me somewhat of my favorite Annie Ross song, “Twisted.” It’s about a young woman going to a farmer’s market… and then a whole lot about beans! I can’t think of another song that’s so much about beans (even jellybeans). But what else is it about? Well, the guy selling beans isn’t the usual bean guy, but a cute hipster. My first inclination is, of course, sex—which is usually the case. But then it just goes right off into outer space—I can’t even begin to hope to paraphrase here! I can’t even begin to follow it—and I’m afraid that even if I could make out all the lyrics, it might be beyond my understanding. And that alone makes this my favorite song on the record! Blame it on the beans!
Spirit “Clear”
I’ve been intrigued with Spirit enough to buy a few of their early records—it also helped that I could find inexpensive copies—though they’re all beat to shit—but they still sound good! I haven’t written about any before now—though I did recently freak out over a Randy California solo record—and he’s in this band, as you know. I’m not going to read about them—just yet—I mean how the individual dudes melded to make a whole—who might be the leaders, and who might be jilted—too many guys—too many names—not enough time! This is pure sound I’m going on. I did glance at their discography—this is their third LP—I like that they’re on Ode Records, with the yellow school bus cheapo looking label. One thing fun about them is you don’t know what’s coming next—they mash together hippie blues, psychedelic pop, progressive rock, ballads, instrumentals, jams—lots of percussion, lots of guitar, various singers—though… the lyrics elude me at this point—the few I’ve made out sound like they were hard-earned. In pictures I’ve seen of them, including this album cover and back cover—the five of them look like a band—all quite hairy—except for one guy, excellent jazz drummer Ed Cassidy—who was actually Randy California’s stepfather—the “old guy” in the band. (Much older than Jack Casady (not related, different band), and even older than Jack Cassidy (father of David, Shaun—the musical Cassidys just keep coming), and even older than Neal Cassady, who probably died during the making of this record (also not related).) Ed Cassidy is as bald as a cue ball. Remember, back in 1969 bald guys weren’t a dime a dozen like they are now—virtually no one was bald but Yul Brynner, and the cast of Kung Fu (and even that was 1972).
Well… I really like this record, so I’m going to describe it the best I can while listening and being free with my observations. I’m not going to list songs (there are six to a side) because I feel like they are conforming to song structure somewhat against their most natural instincts (I may be, and am probably, wrong about this, but it’s what I’m hearing). So I’m going to pretend it’s a single musical piece, only restricted by the two sides of an LP. Why there are “bombs falling” sound effects (like Flipper’s “Sex Bomb”) during a song about a “dark eyed woman” I have no idea—maybe there are metaphors working in both directions—of course there are. Already, a percussion break—nice—tempo change in the next “song”—solid—but at this point we think we’re in for a whole record of hippie guitar blues, so I’m happy to report we’re now selling something—not sure what—happiness? And now… one of those sex songs disguised as a fairytale. And next… they’re moving off down the tunnel of death, until… someone had a little too much zappa with lunch. After running some errands, maybe a siesta… hitman from south of the border… movie score. What’s this, a harmony-rich psych-pop ballad? —you can fall either on the side of beautiful… or cornball. While I’m deciding, it’s back to drug-rock (songs with “Truckin’” in the title are 100% about drugs, 0% about the conveyance of goods). Less than brief interlude. Sleaze. Sly cartoon cat is up to something. Best for last… a compact (4:24) fervent mini-opera about futility.
DJ Farraginous 
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