Silver Convention “Get Up and Boogie (That’s Right)” / “Son of a Gun”

I’ve lost all patience, I admit, with the internet, social media, this website—the constant hustle just trying to get anyone to listen. I should probably stop writing about records I don’t even like, because I have no energy for “research”—and while I do have nostalgia for many dumb things in my past, I have none for most TV shows and quite a lot of music—including disco. But anyway, here’s a 45 with an attractive label—half yellow, half white—“Midland International”—it’s got more info on it than Encyclopedia Britannica—two dates, 1974, 1976—and under the song titles: “A Butterfly Production by Michael Kunze, An Original Jupiter Recording”—I don’t want to automatically say that sounds like there was coke involved, but come on. I mean “Get Up and Boogie” is a pretty great song—it’s mostly a repetition of several women singers singing “Get up and boogie,” though they occasionally vary that with… “Boogie.” Genius. The thing about the song I don’t like is that periodically the music stops and what sounds like several fraternity brothers shout, “That’s right!” I’m guessing for many, that “makes” the song—but for me, quite the opposite. I guess I could do a remix of the song, cut out the “That’s rights!”—but then, I’m imagining, I’d be tempted to add in something equally as dumb—like “Speen sauce!” Okay, maybe not that dumb.

The B-Side, “Son of a Gun,” is just as good—well, I like it way better (mostly due to it not having gym-short guys singing “That’s right!” all though it). But it’s a pretty great song, actually. The women intermittently sing, “You son of a gun”—which, I believe is intended, in this context, as a woman berating a man. Maybe I’m wrong—but that’s the impression I get, because between those outbursts we hear a man singing (so low and mumbly I can’t really make out the words) a kind of Barry White inspired sleaze-talking. The problem is—“you son of a gun” is never an expression used in anger at someone—it’s always an expression of approval (used with an ironic twist). So, maybe it’s the language barrier here that’s the problem—Silver Convention is a German group, after all. But for me, this is no problem at all—it’s what makes the song—well, that and the soaring instrumental parts that are very cinematic—kind of “Theme from Shaft” inspired. But what if I’m wrong about all this? I’ll have to listen to it REALLY LOUD to see what the low-voiced guy is saying. Well, I still can’t understand what he’s saying, and the neighbors are complaining, but it sounds like he’s trying to get the women to forgive him for some indiscretion, while, at the same time, trying to “get busy” with them. Pretty much what I’d imagined. It is a great song—I guess I like this record after all—and it’s put me in a much better mood! (Why I persist.)

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.

Carly Simon “Hotcakes”

I’ll buy anything (record, book, movie) called “Hotcakes,” or “Pancakes,” or “Donuts,” or “Homefries,” for that matter—anything that you drink coffee with, and might be consumed for breakfast, or at a diner or lunch counter. If “Hotcakes” somehow refers to sex, however, I’m not as interested. I don’t know why it would, necessarily, but if you push anything far enough, it ends up on sex, eventually. Of course, the title of this record might have just meant that it was intended to sell a buttload of units. That doesn’t sound good, but I’ll edit that out—I’m trying to type as fast as the songs are going by. I’m really liking the sound of this record—but that doesn’t surprise me, seeing how it’s from my favorite year for pop music, 1974. Great musicians, fine production, good sound. The album cover makes me wonder. Carly Simon is wearing a very cottony or linen-looking white dress, sitting on a wooden chair painted white, in a room painted white, resting on a table (painted white) that’s built onto the wall, under a window with a white curtain. There’s a tiny bit of silver hardware. The window is closed, but the glass is covered over with, you guessed it, white. What does it mean? The back cover is a close-up, CS is contemplative, barely smiling (no teeth), looking off, holding what looks like rosary beads or a long necklace, part of which are white elephants… I think. Could be anteaters. If they’re elephants, I kind of hope they aren’t made of ivory. The cover opens up to reveal a striking two-foot-tall photograph of Carly Simon kind of dancing for the camera, hands outstretched, posing by the side of a mountain road. She’s, again, smiling, wearing a hippie dress, faded denim smock, wide brimmed hat, clogs, and red knee socks. My 14-year-old self could have hung this on my bedroom wall like a poster, and why not.

I made pancakes this morning—hadn’t made any in a while—and now I realized I might have been anticipating writing something about this record. Or else—the breakfast led to this, I’m not sure—but I like when things work that way. Most of the songs are written or cowritten by Carly Simon. “Forever My Love” is one of my favorites—it’s cowritten by James Taylor, who plays on, I think, every song. I believe they were married at this time. The one cover song is “Mockingbird” —you know that one—which they do as a duet—it’s a hot version—and some big names playing on that one. There’s an overall feeling of happiness to these songs, and this record in general. I don’t mind that so much—someone’s got to stay positive for the rest of us. Also, when the general mood is well-adjusted, positive, even happy—it gives added weight to the inevitable melancholy moments. One wonders if a song called, “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain” addresses this idea. Of course it does—and it could, as well, in my opinion, sell as much catsup as “Anticipation” (1971). There is a song called “Hotcakes,” by the way, but it’s only a minute long, sounds a little odd since its down there with the tight grooves—but it’s a rap song, with horns, about hotcakes. “Safe and Sound” is another good one. “Mind On My Man” kind of makes me jealous. As does “Think I’m Gonna Have a Baby.” I mean, my 14-year-old self with the two-foot-high poster on my bedroom wall. And finally, I’m fascinated with “Just Not True,” though I can’t figure out what it’s saying, exactly—but I like it for that—as well as that it won’t sell ketchup or set up James Bond—but I like it all the more for that.

Ray Pillow “The Waitress” / “She Knows What Love Can Do”

A promo 45 on Mega Records from 1973. (On the Mega label, above the name, there’s a little graphic that I’m inclined to file as: “I have no idea what that is.” A window AC unit? But how would that make any sense? A robot? Hell if I know!) Anyway, a popular Nashville country & western singer, Ray Pillow (his real name!) passed away just a year ago. I nabbed this record sometime before that, knowing only that Ray Pillow is a great handle, and a song called “The Waitress” has got to be a classic—and hopefully includes coffee. Both of these songs might be on LPs— “The Waitress” is on his 1972 album, “Slippin’ Around with Ray Pillow.” (That is a great title.) “The Waitress” is an excellent song, corny as it is, with some really difficult rhymes (I mean, difficult in terms of degree of difficulty—but RP gives it go). And also, downhome wisdom—“She learned to be a waitress by sittin’ home waitin’ on me.” It’s an epic to be certain, and in 2:21, mind you. I mean, this song travels from Texas to Tennessee—and all the states in between, including the state of grace that can only be known by that angel known as… the waitress. That’s not an actual line from the song, but you get the idea. One can easily find both the lyrics and the song on internet—but I’ve just got to quote this one: “And her coffee tastes better ’cause she serves it with that married woman style.” Amazing. “She Knows What Love Can Do” is the slower one, a sad song, also about a woman who has been on the crap side of romance and love—but is he blaming “love” exactly? (See: title of this song, which is also the last line of the chorus.) Or her “lover,” essentially? Hard to tell—this song gets in and out in about 2:27—fastest I’ve ever been confused. But it’s a beautiful song, and that’s all that matters.

Vern Gosdin “Never My Love”

Since I’m obsessed with the Addrisi Brothers song, “Never My Love,” I’ll pick up any record with that song, including by the Addrisi Brothers (twice)—and including this one—the album is even named after it. So, I guess you could say the song sold me this record (I mean, not a lot of cabbage changed hands)—rather than the star—that’s often the way it works, with me, with older records. I look at the songs, and songwriters, and then maybe I discover some singer I never knew about. It turns out that Vern Gosdin is a big name in Nashville—he was known as country music’s “The Voice” (I’m trusting the close-internet, here) which would kind of make him like a parallel of Sinatra, at least nickname-wise. (His eyes, on the cover photo, do appear blue, but who knows.) It’s often said that Sinatra has no peer, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a parallel. Well, Vern Gosdin does have an excellent, deep, country music singing voice. Lots and lots of singles, including some Country Number Ones—mostly in the Seventies and Eighties. This LP is from 1978, the year I graduated from high school—definitely before I because a country music fan. It’s a fine version of “Never My Love”—and there’s some other very good songs, like “When I Need You,” and, “I Sure Can Love You” (all of Side One is excellent). Also, “Forget Yesterday,” and “Something’s Wrong in California” (it’s hard to go wrong with a title like that).

A subtly weird album cover. You might not even notice it (as being weird, or at all)—it’s dark, earth-tone, brown—Vern Gosdin looks like he’s lit by a yellowing streetlamp. It looks like he’s peeking out of a doorway, wearing a dark suit and a loud shirt with an enormous collar—or maybe two jackets, one with a massive lapel. The weird thing is, the “doorway” (if that’s what it is) is slanted, like on a 70-degree (estimate, I don’t have a protractor) angle. So, it’s like he’s in an Indiana Jones set, or a Batman villain’s hideout. The back cover—same photo, but he’s looking off to the left, as if at someone making a comment. (Like, “…or are you just happy to see me?”) Or else, meant to show off his profile—highlighting his sideburn and schnoz. And the subtly oddest thing—barely in the shadows, below, it looks like his hand’s in his pocket (you can make out some loud sleeve)… but a thumb is protruding—which looks an awful lot like he’s doing that old gag where you put your hand down your pants and stick a finger out the open zipper in order to resemble… you know. I’m not saying he’s doing this—and it would be very weird (though kind of brilliant) if he was—but other record buyers, other than myself, over the years, must have made this same observation, over the years. This oddity alone (and a nice, listening record) makes me a new fan of Vern Gosdin.

Stan Kenton & His Orchestra “7.5 on the Richter Scale”

This cornball Stan Kenton cartoon-album-cover cheapo masterpiece starts off with what sounds like a college marching band version of “Live and Let Die” (which every marching band in the country did, you recall, after that movie came out—despite the not very positive message of the lyrics). Still, I like it, as well as the ridiculous version of “Body and Soul” that sets me right in a movie set in Las Vegas. It’s all movie music, actually—the liner notes refer to “now” music (bordering on rock) (thus, the “earth shaking” reference). The datedness comes across as (to me) charming. “Down and Dirty” is a detective movie theme with a great bass part on top of which horn ridiculousness makes okay sense. If you can hear “Country Cousin” (a Gene Roland composition) without seeing 1973 mustachioed Burt Reynolds in tight pants, you’re too old (or too young). Their take on the Strauss (Zarathustra) is a weird one—as is, I suppose, every take on that oddball theme—it would be fun to rank them. All in all, this LP goes with my party records (as intended, I’m guessing)—I only wish I had a dedicated “Rec-Room” with a wet bar (whatever that is), a psychedelic mural, and blacklights. Hopefully the party would last much longer than the duration of this record, but “It’s Not Easy Bein’ Green” sounds like the mellowed to exhaustion climax, when people put their arms around each other and it seems okay (at least at the time). What to make of, then, that jaunty “Godfather” theme? Maybe it’s just a sequencing problem. Or maybe I’m wrong about the party. “Blue Gene” (another Gene Roland) is another movie, this time with that weirdo James Coburn. How does that guy seem to keep getting weirder, over time?

Gino Vannelli “The Gist of the Gemini”

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.

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).

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.

Sammi Smith “Help Me Make It Through the Night”

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. 1^st 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.