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.

John Phillips “John Phillips (John, The Wolfking of L.A.)”

This is one of those records that just sits out there by itself—don’t really know what to do with it—well, I put it on the turntable a lot—I haven’t gotten tired of it yet. I guess it would go in my “desert island crate”—if I’m allowed a crate (on the S.S. Minnow). Every song is really good—John Phillips is a great songwriter. It’s essentially a country record—with the Wrecking Crew, some country legends, and great backup singers—in the studio. It’s one of those that I prefer to listen to as a whole rather than as a collection of songs—but if I had to isolate one, the sing-a-long, “Holland Tunnel” is the one I’d put on every mix tape—if I still made mix tapes. This is a record where I’ll buy an extra weed-saturated copy whenever I find it, intending it as a gift—but then decide I need a “backup.” Also, you’ve got to consider the gift thing, because with John Phillips, there’s a lot going on. You need little more than the internet to read some pretty awful stuff about him—which may or may not be true—so, you’ve got to decide yourself if your eyes are bigger than your stomach—or something—wrong metaphor—if you can stomach even the rumors. I read some of his autobiography, Papa John (1986), and there’s a part where he said he left members of the Rolling Stones to babysit his kids while he went into town to score drugs. I don’t know if it’s worse to admit something like that or brag about it, but besides being kind of funny, and horrifying, pathetic, (maybe charming?)—it gives you a taste of an unimaginably exotic and messed up world. So it’s up to you, the listener (and reader—you don’t have to read this) how you want to spend your money and time. The money’s not going to him (he died in 2001), or the label—it might be $3 going to your local used record store.

The other thing, for me, is even more imaginary—something about John Phillips’ image over the years, as a larger than life character, rock star, what have you. I am a big fan of the Mamas & the Papas—though I wasn’t when I was a kid. I don’t know when that happened. I guess some of their songs somehow managed to stay fresh for me—even after hearing them a thousand times. (See: Chungking Express (1994).) They were a fascinating band. I’m spellbound by any old, live (or fake live) footage I come across. Mama Cass was the real star of that band—but it cracked me up how John Phillips seemed to be trying to disappear, hide behind an acoustic guitar, despite being a head taller than the rest of them and wearing some nutty fur hat to accentuate that. Then, later images of him, you can imagine the personification of the creepy old hippie. But this record (1970)—somewhere in between—strikes me as kind of the pinnacle of his recording career—him at his best. Did he feel that way? And how much of the sordid stuff is just Hollywood-style conjured image? Probably a lot—but the back cover of the record—a photo of him on the beach with a demonic grin, sporting a top hat and fur coat, and looking just really dirty—horrified me and fascinated me to a degree that I attempted to write a short story about it. I planned on placing it as the last story in a book of stories—and I attempted to draw (with oil crayons) a version of that photo on the back album cover—intended for the back of my book. I ended up rejecting the story—not sure why—it didn’t work. But it occurs to me now that that story is why I’m getting the nagging feeling that I’ve written all this before. So, no, I’m not high, and it’s not déjà vu. And, okay, I’ll admit it—it’s my favorite record.

Barbara Christian “Not Like You Boy” / “I Worry”

Finally, I came across a record in my very miscellaneous 45 box that I never heard before and it’s really good. Both sides sound like soul classics—they sound enough like other songs that they’re on the tip of your tongue—but I don’t recall ever hearing them. I must have played the record when I found it (I play everything once)—then filed it with the rest, waiting for its magic number to come up. It’s a simple white label with black, basic letters, Brownie Records—and the artist, Barbara Christian. I’d never heard of either, so the way my brain works, I’m thinking religious music, and that dessert that’s about half as good as fudge. But no, the A-side is a hot soul number with a repetitive organ riff, horns, wild drums, and catchy, echoey backup vocals—an overall kind of over-blown, hard, funky sound. You can dance to it. Her singing is strong and emotional. I like “I Worry” even more—a slower one, even more emotional—the man in question here isn’t being dismissed, this time—more worth being sad over. You can dance to this one too, but it would be a slow dance. Again, organ, horns, and drums recorded loud, so when they break out, they distort—I really like the sound. I imagine this is the same recording session. Both songs are credited to “G. Brown”—and it’s “A Gary Brown Production”—so I’m guessing he wrote them. I can’t find a lot of info, but there’s some on Discogs, and in comments on a YouTube of the record someone was kind enough to post. If the info is correct—Brownie was Gary Brown’s label, out of Milwaukee, and Barbara Christian was born in Newark and passed away in Milwaukee in 2018. The record is from 1967. I know I always say (when writing about a 45) that I don’t have any idea where it came from (I’m a broken record) but in most cases that’s true. You come across them a lot in thrift stores, and they’re almost always either super big hits, a billion pressed, and/or lame novelty records. But once in a while you find something good, like this, so it’s worth looking!

Rachel Sweet “Fool Around”

I don’t remember when we first heard of Rachel Sweet (by “we,” I mean my high school punk rock bandmate and music fan friends). It had to be either Rolling Stone (a review) or just buying this record, since it was on the Stiff label (“If it ain’t Stiff, it ain’t worth a f**k”)—for a while there, you couldn’t go wrong. Anyway, we loved the record. We did our best to find out about her. Was she still in high school?! And from Ohio, where we lived? There were a lot of good bands from the Akron area, of course, but how did a high school girl record a record for Stiff? And with the excellent musicians from Ian Dury’s band (AKA, The Blockheads)? Here, I got sidetracked for a while, as it occurred to me Ian Dury might have put out some records, later, that I never heard. Which led me to one from 1997 (that tragic, black hole of sound CD era) called Mr. Love Pants—fantastic title—and an excellent record, that I’d like to get ahold of.

Anyway, back to Rachel Sweet. The record isn’t exactly punk rock—but it is youthful and high energy, so it might have fallen under that imaginary, euphemistic umbrella, “new wave.” Power Pop was also a term being thrown around. Oddly, there are a few versions of this record, with different songs—I’m not going to attempt to compare the two, but the one I have is maybe later, 1979, the US version—and it’s got a better cover. The other cover is fine—both of them are photos outside, she’s wearing a leather jacket—but entirely different hair and makeup—in this one she looks younger, probably closer to her age. On the back, she looks ever younger, leaning against a pole—and it looks like, I’m not sure, she’s chewing on a piece of straw—who does that? Also, there’s a much younger girl passing behind her—was that set up, or did she just happen to be there, whoever it is—and does she have this record?

It’s a nice album—I still like the sound, the production, her singing, and the songs. Highlights include the Carla Thomas song “B-A-B-Y,” with horns and a lot of echo. A really good Elvis Costello country song. The Mark Middler (don’t remember him) number, “Sad Song.” The Peter and Gordon hit “I Go to Pieces.” And the Dusty Springfield hit “Stay Awhile.” The producer is an Akron musician, Liam Sternberg, who I never found out much about (all those years I lived in the area). He also wrote half the songs on the record, including my favorites, “Who Does Lisa Like?” and “Cuckoo Clock.” And then, my very favorite might be “Pin a Medal on Mary,” written by some guys who, I guess, were contemporary power pop Brits—in the band, The Records—though, I’ve never heard any other version of this song. It’s got a great opening line: “You said you were going to the bathroom, but you were gone for half an hour.” Anyway—fast ones, slow ones, “new wave” songs, retro songs, country, and R&B—no weak songs on this record.

Randy California “Kapt. Kopter and the (Fabulous) Twirly Birds”

For some odd reason I’m especially attracted to records by people named “Randy.” Maybe it’s because Randy is such a goofy name. It’s a name you should never give your kids, unless you want them to go into show business, fail, and suffer a broken heart. Anyway, this obsession has sometimes backfired, and I’ve bought some real clinkers over the years, but also some all-time gems, like Randy Lee’s Soakin’ with Tears. And there’s always Randy Newman. And I’ve always been fascinated with Randy California and the band, Spirit. I read on the unreliable internet that Randy California got his handle when he was in a band with Jimi Hendrix and another Randy, so Jimi named them Randy California and Randy Texas. (I’m glad I wasn’t in that band, or I’d be going around as Ray Indiana!) Anyway, I was thrilled to find this LP—the cover is great—it looks like it served for a time as a urinal splashguard—yet it still plays brilliantly. Before even touching needle to vinal, however, I started a review based on the gnarly cover photo and credits, which went something like this: “When you get this jambalaya of odors together—weed, whiskey, BO, menthol cigarettes, patchouli, and dirty hippie feet—which one dominates? That’s kind of a rhetorical quiz question, actually, but all I’ve got to say is, thank god for the patchouli! Is that a way for me to describe the absolutely filthy sound of this record? Well, all I’ve got to go on is the righteous sound, and the black and white photos on front and back—unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately)—no olfactory sensations.”

SO, I was wrong to be dismissive, but right about the filthy sound—you almost sense that you’re going to need to clean your stereo after playing it. Besides the gnarly rockstar photos, the song listings and credits are enough to scare away the most reckless bargain bin gambler. No less than two Lennon-McCartneys (one will sink most records) and a Paul Simon! And then… musicians named Henry Manchovitz, Cass Strange, and Clit McTorius! It’s “Danger Will Robinson.” But… I thought I should at least listen to it—and I’m glad I did, because it’s not only an awesome record, it’s become the soundtrack for my life. This is a record where I’ve got to go through song by song—because one gets the impression that they stumbled into the studio, pulled off side one, went out for a bucket of fried chicken and a few drinks, and then went back in for side two.

The first song is aptly called “Downer” and sounds like it never gets fully formed before it falls apart—which is, I mean, great—they sound like they have no respect for their instruments, and that’s cool. The record came out in 1972, which is when I had my first band, and we didn’t even have instruments. (We’d already broken my mom’s guitar, so we were stuck with an autoharp, piano, pots and pans.) We also had no helicopter, like, who I assume are the band members, seen approaching on the back cover—wait… that’s the same helicopter on the front, and they’re right under the blades—they should really be ducking down! And do they really not have cases for their guitars? Next song, “Devil,” is not doing it for me—not converting me to the Twirly Birds or Satan—way too much backwards guitar. Apparently, at some point, someone sang some Satanic messages and then played it backwards on a record to hide the message from all but the Satanists—and ever since, anything played backwards is like shorthand for “Satanic.” I get it. The next song, “I Don’t Want Nobody,” starts out sounding like the Edgar Winter Group, but then the singing starts (RC), sounding a lot like the James Brown song this has shortened the title from. It’s great—this is the one that hooked me—but weirdly, it sounds nothing like James Brown, and is now totally making me think of Fuzzhead—but it couldn’t be influenced by Fuzzhead—not without a time machine. At any rate, now I’m in. I’m into it. So much so, that by the time we get to the next song, “Day Tripper,” I’m open to the idea that it might not be a steaming turd. And it’s actually a lot of fun—it kind of sounds like a cover band at the grange hall who are actually really good—but perhaps helped and hindered by a variety of substances. Last, and the weirdest cover song choice, is Paul Simon’s reggae song from that year, “Mother and Child Reunion”—and sounds nothing like it—but apparently the song is about Chinese food, so maybe the band was ready for a lunch break.

Side Two kicks off with a cover of Sweathog’s excellent song, “Things Yet to Come,” along with some effects that sound like someone squirting some 409 spray cleaner all over the place—maybe it was, but why? Again, this one really reminds me of a Fuzzhead song—but still, no time machine. But then it occurs to me, maybe Fuzzhead was influenced by this very record—I mean literally the one I’m playing—it very well could have spent some time in a basement. After that epic, Alvin and the Chipmunks visit the studio (either that or someone’s having fun with helium). After which the band launches into some unlistenable audio-lame-joke-playing as an into to “Rain”—one of the more druggy Beatles songs (and one of my favorites)—and they kind of continue with the tradition here—drugs, drugs, more drugs, Satan, drugs, and so forth. Nice. After that epic, you figure it’s about time for another snack, but no, there’s another song, called “Rainbow”—the best original on the record—sounding a bit like Hendrix. I can’t make out the lyrics, but the chorus sounds like, “I need protection,” over and over. Think about it—he needs protection from a rainbow? What’s that all about?

George Shearing “New Look!”

I’ll pretty much pick up any Shearing record I don’t have, and since they’re abundant and inexpensive, I do have a lot. I’m not sure if I remember even hearing this one—it’s pretty striking in the approach—along with the unmistakable “Shearing Sound” there is an orchestra—strings, as well as brass and woodwinds, and occasionally Latin percussion—he’s throwing it all at us—for renditions of popular music of the time—the time being 1967. There are five paragraphs of liner notes on back with some nuts-and-bolts description of what’s going on here, as well as sounding both like a travel agency brochure and an automobile add. The “orchestrations” are credited to Julian Lee, who I know nothing about, but the Big Board says he’s from New Zealand, which may or may not explain anything. He’s got tons of credits, including lots more Shearing, of this era. If this record is any indication, I’ll look forward to getting those records, too—I love the sound of this record. Modern (I mean, 1967 version of modern), but also dated (in a good way), breezy, cool, but also nostalgic.

The front cover kind of says it all—a young, blond woman in a miniskirt, barefoot—either dancing, or demonstrating how to pitch out of a sand trap with an imaginary golf club. Her dress is pretty amazing—dark blue with bold yellow circles (actually, they could a semi-abstract renditions of 45 RPM records). Plus, a wide, bright yellow vinyl belt. She is standing in front of the lineup of songs in a minimalist font, gold on a white background—and she’s managing to not obscure any. Above her, below the title, it says: “George Shearing with the Quintet and the new sounds of his multi-colored orchestra plays the great new songs.” You’d think he’d reinvented the pizza.

Quite often a misplaced Lennon-McCartney can render an otherwise fine side unlistenable. Sorry to say it—they’re great songs—when performed by the Beatles. I don’t know if people just get them wrong, or there’s magic missing. So, I had reason to be concerned with Side One—boasting TWO, including the dreaded “Michelle”—and “Yesterday,” which is a problem for me, since it was the first and only song I ever learned how to play on piano with both left and right hand parts—and I remember that toil like it’s… yesterday. I think the song will forever remind me of my failure at that instrument. The weird thing here, though, is both songs are great. I’m not going to sit around and try to figure out how they did it—I think it’s just that there’s a fresh and creative approach to every song on this record, and they include some seriously over-recorded and overplayed childhood (mine) AM radio gems, like “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever,” “Strangers in the Night,” “Call Me,” “The Shadow of Your Smile,” and “What the World Needs Now Is Love.” It’s a rare album where there are no bummers, and also, nothing really stands out—except for the somewhat audacious approach. I can listen to this repeatedly and now that I have it out, I may. Of course, as I said before, George Shearing is the sound of my childhood and I’d have to encounter an LP where he really runs afoul before you’re going to hear a dissenting word from (the critical side of) me.

Julie London “Julie Is Her Name”

You could say the same thing about Christie, Andrews, the girl I had a crush on in third grade, my aunt and uncle’s poodle, and probably someone you know well—as well as this singer—it almost sounds like an introduction, doesn’t it? I guess she was acting for a decade before this LP, but it was a hit record—it begins with her biggest hit song “Cry Me a River”—you might remember her appearance, and that song, in The Girl Can’t Help It (1956)—a very weird scene. This is a low-key, smooth, mellow, make-out record—her voice is like vanilla yogurt (way better—I’m kind of sad I used that comparison—maybe expensive Scotch and menthols, I don’t know). She’s accompanied only by guitar (Barney Kessel) and bass (Ray Leatherwood)—and these are some fine versions of some of my favorite standards, including “I Should Care,” “I’m in the Mood for Love,” “I’m Glad There is You,” “It Never Entered My Mind,” “Easy Street,” “No Moon at All,” “Laura,” and more—thirteen songs, no bad ones. The striking cover is a chest up photo of her in front of a light-green background with just a tiny glimmer of a lowcut dress evident (they probably first tried to crop it so she could be imagined wearing nothing, but this was 1955). The liner notes are in a font smaller than my early ‘zines (everyone complained about eyestrain)—an enthusiastic bit by Bill Ballance, and then some real excess by screenwriter Richard Breen: “…there is a sweet impermanence about things; the marigold will lose its yellow; spring will not last forever; not all butterflies will stay genial.” Just that bit says a lot, and he’s really pushing it with the butterfly part.

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.

Crabby Appleton “Crabby Appleton”

I bought this record because I’d never heard of Crabby Appleton, and it’s a great album cover—five longhaired white guys who look very 1970 are in a narrow brick alley in front of a dilapidated mansion. The bricks are painted green, and they’re sitting on some steps—the foremost of which is art department graffitied the name of the band (and their debut album), as well as the awesome Elektra logo. My copy has a “Crabby Appleton” semi-circle logo stickered over the top of the mansion—which actually looks pretty natural there. Also, a promo copy/not for sale sticker. I’m impressed by the amount of debris in the alley—it looks less art department-like, and more like no one had a broom—there’s broken glass, sticks, paper bags, a Campbell’s Soup can, and the best, a crushed Cap’n Crunch, Crunch Berries box. It’s fairly obvious the principal guy in the band is the one in the center, looking like a high school age Jimmy Page—it’s Michael Fennelly, the singer, guitarist, and songwriter. But the one I especially like is the guy with the glasses—he has a quality that like to call “Speenish”—in that he’s a little goofy-looking, and very much of his time. At first, I could only assume the band was named after him! He kind of resembles that one guy in Jefferson Airplane—so I immediately assumed this was a Bay Area band, but they’re from LA. I had to look up each name before I found out who was who. The conga player/percussionist, who is apparently Cuban, has the great name, “Flaco Falcon.” It turns out the Speenish guy is named Phil Jones, and he has the best resume of anyone in the band—he played with an impressive list of big names, including Tom Petty.

I’m not crazy about this record, but I still might put it on from time to time. Since there’s a keyboard player, you know ahead of time you’re going to be inundated, at some point, with that Hammond organ sound—and yes, it creeps in like the salty sea taking over a sinking ship. I mean, it’s okay, but Hammond should be used like a dangerous spice, and it wasn’t always, in that era. The percussion is compelling, throughout. There are only a few instances where you get the sense that the guitar leads were overdubbed with deadly obviousness. It’s overall, a pretty upbeat, but mellow, record with the best intentions. Apparently, they recorded a second record called “Rotten to the Core!”—and that was it for Crabby Appleton—maybe they’d run out of apple puns. One more observation I had was that I’m not in love with any of the songs—they are okay, but I wonder what kind of stuff they covered. I wouldn’t usually say this, about most bands, but I get the feeling I would have liked this band more in a live setting, at least of they stretched out and  jammed for longer spells—just because they sound to me like someone who might be able to fall into a nice groove—the percussion really helps with that. But I’m just guessing. I’ll look for some live stuff on the big internet, but I’m not expecting I’ll find much.