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.

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.

Royce Hall Lucky 4 “One More Glass of Wine” / “That’s My Life”

Royce Hall Lucky 4 is apparently the name of the artist and/or band? But what does it mean? “Lucky 4 could be a band with four people (or even three), or it might be gambling-oriented. On the Raynard label, which the big voice tells me was Dave Kennedy’s label—so one might assume this was recorded at Dave Kennedy Recording Studio in Milwaukee, though I’m not sure. The record is from 1967. I can’t find anything about Royce Hall Lucky 4, or Royce Hall (I’m assuming Royce Hall is the guy, as the songs are credited to “R. Hall”). But no photos or bio. I’m sure the info is out there—but deeper than I want to dig late on a Friday in early May. There’s a PLACE called Royce Hall, so there’s a billion photos of that—and every Dick, Tom, and Harry who set foot in it. Anyway, the record: It’s some old-time for real country sounding stuff. “That’s My Life” is almost two minutes, and states the title, plus “since you been gone.” (Every time he goes out and tries to forget “you”—people keep asking where “you” are.) “One More Glass of Wine” is the three-minute epic—and goes: “The more I drink the less I think about her,” and so forth—he’s asking for one more glass of wine to help him drive her from his mind. My only question is, who drinks wine at a bar in misery? You drink bourbon, or maybe beer in those circumstances—if you’re drinking wine to reach oblivion, you drink cheap, sweet wine from a bottle, likely in an alley or under a tarpaulin in the back of a truck. But I’ll let it go—this was 1967—things were nuts back around then. Plus, George Jones sang about drinking wine (“Just One More”), and for a country singer, there’s no better role model.

John Sebastian “The Four of Us”

I remember buying this as a young teen, I believe at the mall record store (not this copy—but I remember the abstract cover like it was yesterday). I’m not sure if, when I bought it, I was already familiar with John Sebastian from seeing him on TV, either solo or with the Lovin’ Spoonful, singing “Do You Believe in Magic”—hugging that autoharp—which was the nerdiest thing I’d ever seen. But also really cool, in a way, and kind of exciting, because when we started our first band, in 1972, the only instruments we had available to us were the piano, the autoharp, and a gong (as well as improvised percussion). I always thought of him as one of those annoying hippies with glasses (as opposed to annoying hippies without glasses)—but still liked him. I remember thinking this album seemed about half dumb and half compelling—and that’s about how it sounds to me now—though likely different parts are dumb and compelling. The styles are all over the place, but that’s what you get from someone with a lot of influences who gets to indulge a little. When I was 13 or so, I suppose I liked the blues stuff best, but now my favorite song is “I Don’t Want Nobody Else”—just because it’s a particular kind of dated pop song that appeals to me now. Funny, because I’m pretty sure it was my least favorite song on the record, back then—but now I really like it. Just a simple pop song, a little melancholy, very pretty.

Side Two is presented as one song, “The Four of Us”—though, of course, it’s a “suite” of very different songs—but it’s kind of a loose travelogue about these four hippies traveling in a truck, four of them, two men, two women—and I’m pretty sure I got the impression that there was a bit of “swapping” going on—which made me feel gross, back then. It makes me feel gross now, as well—though I don’t think there’s anything in the lyrics to support this—I must have been reading into it, just because of my biases about hippie culture, free love, and all that. On the way, then, they’re meeting some characters, and that gets old, so then they head down to the islands for a bit (steel drums and the like). Restless again, so it’s back, and to New Orleans, electric guitar, some partying, Dr. John and so forth. And then on the road again, a little melancholy, heading out west. Red Wing, Colorado—always my favorite—maybe I pictured that as how my life could have, and should have, progressed. The simple life—so simple that now there’s only two of them. Where did the other two go? But even that gets old, so it’s back to LA and, I guess, “Hollywood”—is LA home? Now it’s “more of us” (babies, I’m guessing, not just ferrets and dogs). Ultimately, as far as I can tell, it’s about the “love of a good woman.” And memories. Bit of lowkey ending there, but at least it’s happy. Had this been a movie of the era, it might have ended with drug overdoses, car accidents, and violence. Glad to hear John Sebastian’s still out there, and he’s still doing music and other show-biz stuff.

3.31.23

Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard “Pancho and Lefty” / “Opportunity to Cry”

I know this song from the Townes Van Zandt version, who wrote it—it’s a good song. A while back I was listening to a lot of Townes Van Zandt, who was a great songwriter and singer, but at some point, for some reason, I had to take a break… I have no idea why. Maybe some feeling of inescapable sadness from his songs. It’s my problem. I’ll come back to him. I don’t want to be a person who is just trying to escape all the time. Anyway, this is a version sung by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Every time I hear Willie Nelson, I try to figure out just what makes his voice so distinctive and lovely. And Merle Haggard—I went through a phase with him a few decades back. So I was expecting something here, but I just can’t get past the production—it sounds like everyone is on TV, with makeup and manicured nails. Maybe it’s just the sound of 1982. I’d much prefer a version recorded in a truck-stop bathroom or a tent, somewhere, or a shed, or in the backseat on a trip. That’s just my preference. The B-side is better, not sure why. The funny thing is—the magic 8-ball happened to pick out this record at almost the same time I started reading Bob Dylan’s new book (The Philosophy if Modern Song), and I just came to a chapter on this recording—so I stopped reading and wrote this. Now I’ll go back and see what Bob’s take is… sure to be entirely different than mine. Maybe he’ll convince me.

So, ol’ Bob gives us as bit of the history of Townes Van Zandt. How ultimately, Hank Williams was his guy—I can hear that. I didn’t know that he died on New Year’s Day, like Hank. Dylan then has some kind words about Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Then, mostly, he kind of interprets the lyrics of the song, and goes on and on. Which got me to listen to the song in a new light—based on the words, more, I mean. I’ve always liked Townes’ version, of course, the beautiful melody, and the sadness. It’s a nutty song… like a dual narrative, with Pancho meeting his fate in Mexico, and Lefty ending up in, of all places, Cleveland. Where I’ve spent a few years—and could very well have “ended up.”

Out of curiosity, I checked out the album (by the same name) that this song is from,, which includes the B-side, “Opportunity to Cry.” The album also includes Merle Haggard’s “Reasons to Quit”—followed by “No Reason to Quit.” I gotta say, that’s some inspired sequencing. Those songs sound great. I don’t know why the sound of the title track put me off when I first spun it, so I give it another try. It’s a great song, sure, but this production—it starts off sounding like a bloated Hollywood movie from the Eighties, when everything got expensive but looked cheap. I’m sorry I can’t get past that. All recorded songs are essentially the perfect evocation of a time and place, more than anything. Sure, there’s poetry, and performances, and emotion, love, big hearts, passion, ideas, philosophy, history, all of it. But when it comes down to it, it’s still you getting invited into a room. And this is just a room—in spite of the good people and grand intentions—this is a room I don’t want to spend time in.

Scott Walker “Scott 3”

Though I may have heard The Walker Bothers as a lad, I had no idea who Scott Walker was until I saw a documentary about him, a decade or so ago—which I’d like to see again—which led to me reading about him and listening to some of his music online. I noticed some things, such as he was from Ohio, had pop career, then started expanding his music in more interesting directions. He reminded me somewhat of Mark Eitzel, I guess, so that was exciting. Some of his later music is really experimental—not the easiest to digest on an empty stomach, but impressive in a formal way. I have never run across any of his albums in bargain bins (which is almost exclusively my way of obtaining vinyl), so I bought a new reissue of this one, called “Scott 3”—originally from 1969—and it’s a great record—it’s got a depth to it that’s immediately evident, that puts it among my favorites. It might take me years to even fully take it in, as it’s already changed a bit through a dozen listenings. I haven’t even begun to approach it lyric-wise—though some are immediately undeniable: “You’re like a winter night, your thoughts are frozen, you kiss your lovers in the snow. Too many icy tears glisten for someone. You watch the leaves as they shiver your loneliness, your eyes are lanterns growing dim…”

From the first song, “It’s Raining Today,” I’m fully caught up in it… (“The train window girl, that wonderful day we met, she smiles through the smoke, from my cigarette…”) It’s making me think about what I like about Richard Harris—though without the camp appeal (at least for me) of R.H., but with all the heaviness and weirdness. (I’m a huge Richard Harris fan, which has a lot to do with the songs by Jimmy Webb, so it’s the highest compliment.) The first ten songs are written by Scott Walker (credited to his original name, Scott Engel), followed by three Jacques Brel songs. I do like Jacques Brel a lot, and apparently so did Scott Walker—he’s a big influence—and the songs here are great—but the Scott Walker songs are even better. At any rate, I’m listening to it now like it’s a new love in my life. That’s really the best thing I can say about any music. Occasionally I’ll like a record so much I’ll come back to it and write a second review, and this might be one of those.

The album cover is a good one, too, a giant blown-up photo of an eye (which I’m a sucker for). Whose eye? Seeing how Scott Walker is reflected in the mirror of the pupil, I’d guess it’s a subject of one of the songs. (Wild guess: Big Louise.) The back cover is mostly taken up by a heavy cloud of words—credited to Keith Altham. Is it a poem? No, it’s liner notes, essentially—or closer to a poetic review of this record—much better than this one (you’re reading now). It takes the approach of appreciating the entire album as a literary work. The cover folds out as well, and inside are roughly eleven oval, sepia tone photos—one of Scott Walker, and the rest are illustrations for each Scott Walker song—along with an excerpted line or two—like they’re short stories from the 19^th century.

In many ways, the record feels much older than it is, as if it’s, to some degree, timeless. But also, everything about it seems like it could be an absolutely contemporary album—not one that came out in 1969. Also, because he kept doing music into his seventies, you picture Scott Walker as someone who aged into this brilliance and eccentricity. But looking at the dates, you realize that he was only in his mid-twenties when he made this album. Which is crazy—because this is a record that really sounds like the work of an older artist. Maybe he was always old—maybe he’s one of those people—you certainly hear that on the last long, “If You Go Away,” (a Jacques Brel song with Rod McKuen lyrics), which he takes over and makes us believe. On the other hand, maybe you have to be that young and audacious to be that emotionally out there.

A big part of why it’s all so good is that the orchestral arrangements are beautiful and intense, but also kind of weird—you might even say “off” at some points—I don’t mean accidentally—but bordering on experimental—not what you might expect. The music keeps you a little bit unbalanced, and one after another of the slow, melancholy orchestral numbers really keep the haunted mood. And there’s a lot of variety, too, of course, especially due to the theatrical Brel songs that take us to another world entirely. And then, “30 Century Man” is a concise and catchy folk pop number that manages to be completely baffling (and great) in a minute and a half. Amazingly, it all fits together. I guess I’m torn between wanting to isolate individual songs or just take the record as a whole, because the album works so well… isolating songs feels like it cheapens them. But it’s also impossible not to… even individual lines (“She’s a haunted house and her windows are broken.”) The song, “Big Louise,” for instance, is so beautiful, I just feel the need to point it out to the spectral companion in my room. (“Listen to this one!” I say.) “She stands all alone, you can hear her hum softly, from her fire escape in the sky. She fills the bags ’neath her eyes with the moonbeams and cries ’cause the world’s passed her by. Didn’t time sound sweet yesterday? In a world filled with friends, you lose your way.” I’d cry, myself, but I’m, you know, all outta tears.

Rockin’ R’s “Live at the Rusty Rail”

This one gets five stars out of five without even putting the needle on it, the cover is so excellent—a full-size black and white photo of who one might assume are the Rockin’ R’s—five white guys, three with bangs, 2 receding a bit—wearing their matching costumes. White pants and metallic, glimmering jackets that most resemble space alien garb from Lost in Space. Also, each guy has a neck scarf (can’t tell the color, could be red) knotted tightly on the right side. The middle guy is sitting behind a snare drum, three have electric guitars and bass (Gibson and Fenders)—and the big guy with glasses has a tambourine. The album title is just below in rocket orange. On back there are four small headshots (three women, one guy) that look like they could be for the chamber of commerce, along with the 14 song titles and who takes the vocals on each—some which match up to the photos. There’s a booking address and phone number. And then liner notes by Rosemary Ellis—which I hope will explain some of this. It’s a pretty thorough rundown of who does what, more or less, down to the songwriting (on the originals), booking, answering the phone (437-1886), wardrobe, bowling, and horse shoes. It sounds like a collective, a club, a group of friends, a band, a business venture, a cult, a very small town, a sailing ship—I’ll go with band. This is a follow-up to a previous live album. They played in Northern Minnesota (a lot in Austin) and made their way into Iowa, as well.

The record is very well-recorded (by the immortal Johnny Durham) (I don’t know if he’s immortal, but his name is the most prominent one on the cover)—crystal clear and immediate—like they’re right here in the room with me, half a century later. The crowd is polite and not overdone. There are a few instrumentals, but mostly it’s country songs with the vocals so upfront you can almost tell what aftershave they’re wearing (or brand of chewing gum, with the women). I believe there are seven different people taking the vocals, including two women—and there are some duets. The playing is top-notch, the band is tight, and they don’t get in each other’s way. The singing is all over the place, from pretty competent to emanating from the neighbor’s shower to cracking bar glasses and rendering mirrors askew. I hope I don’t sound mean—as I’m sure some people would be—I love the heartfelt styles here—and there are a lot of them. I have nothing against singing that wouldn’t make it past the first round of the Gong Show tryouts—I’m a singer myself and can’t stay in key to save my life. The one song sung by “Fritz” (pic on back) is a particular varnish-melter—fantastic. The monologue at the end of the Hank Thompson number, “I Came Awful Close,” sung by “Harold,” is pretty inspired: “You guys stick around here, maybe we’ll get some snakes out later on, and we’ll open some of that good old Christian Brothers brandy from the Alpine liquors in Austin and have a really good time down here at the Rusty Rail.” Another real standout is “Jane” singing “One’s On the Way”—a hilarious song—I probably should have known it—which was a hit for Loretta Lynn around this time. Jane isn’t Loretta, but then no one is—but Loretta. Interesting, that song was written by Shel Silverstein—weird, because I just, yesterday (I’m not kidding) looked him up on the Big Board to see a list of the songs he wrote—because I had been talking about him to someone (OK, to myself—I do a lot of talking to myself). But yeah—odd coincidence—and odd coincidences keep the world spinning.

Melanie “Brand New Key” / “Some Say (I Got Devil)”

This song (“Brand New Key”) was one of those giant hits that you couldn’t avoid around when I was 11, I guess (1971), on the radio, on the TV. I always thought it was an annoying song, so I guess I didn’t pay much attention at the time (other than as I was forced to). I guess it never occurred to me until now that it’s not about roller skating at all, but sexual intercourse. That doesn’t make me like it any better. Then I heard it in a movie somewhere, maybe not so long ago, and I guess it struck a nostalgic note. Still, there’s nothing compelling about the song. How do some songs get to be giant hits like that? Who knows. How did I get this 45? Who knows. I did buy a Melanie album, fairly recently, just because it occurred to me that I was curious about her. When I get to that one, with the magic random number pick, I will look up more about her. I just read briefly that she’s only 75, now, and lives in Nashville. She had a lot of success at a really young age to deal with, I guess. This record label is interesting—“Neighborhood Records”—I never saw that before. I guess it’s a label started by Melanie, herself—and her manager, Peter Schekeryk, also the producer of this record. And also… they were married. I guess that’s a good example of putting that hit record to good use—your own label. The B-side—“Some Say (I Got Devil)”—I like a lot more—it’s a quiet, haunting song. Good lyrics, too: “I’m not in danger/but some have tried to sell me/all kinds of things to save me.”

The Mamas and the Papas “People Like Us”

I didn’t have any The Mamas & the Papas records as a kid—maybe I was too young—I heard the hits on the radio, of course—but it wasn’t until I was in my forties much older that I really started to like them—in part, because I could find all the records at thrift stores—and I bought all their records more or less at once and never really differentiated between them. Over time, I liked a few songs here, a few songs there, but never really got the album identity in my mind. What I’d like best is to make one LP from my favorite songs from their five studio LPs—which would be like my own personal greatest hits record. It’s funny, I noticed they have at least ten greatest hits compilations over the years (and I’m sure there are many more)—and I’ll bet anything none of them come close to containing my favorite songs (while including ones I don’t care for)—in fact they are probably all basically the same. How do I get the job of making the 2023 The Mamas & the Papas compilation record—based on my opinion alone?

The album cover pretty much looks like a record by a band that is no longer a band (which is the case)—and the art department tried as hard as possible for good feelings, but John Phillips looks so demented both on the front and the back cover—there is only so much an art department can do. On the other hand, how many young people buying this record were just plain attracted to the demented look? I really like this record even though it doesn’t have as good overall sound or performances as their earlier ones (I read that Cass Elliot was sick during recording this and couldn’t contribute that much, and I guess you really miss her singing). Anyway, the songs are good—all by John Phillips, except “I Wanna Be a Star”—by Michelle Phillips—and one of the better songs on the record—equaling John’s songs in creepiness. “Mr. Producer, don’t seduce her…” etc., and then: “…in your new production…” (production sung in a way that it may as well mean: “fucking, followed by human sacrifice.” Part of what I’ve always liked about The Mamas & the Papas is their kitschy side coupled with their creepy side. Here’s some examples: “…where a Dixie Cup becomes a chalice,” and, “I’m on my knees your majesty.” Other favorite songs are “Grasshopper”—just a dumb pop song, but really catchy—it’s about a woman who likes to get around, I guess, but has some minimal, but subtly creepy poetry. And “Blueberries for Breakfast” with line like: “Butterflies in my trousers—under the august moon.” And “I’m gonna have to call the cops if you don’t leave me alone. Stop waiting at the bus stop.” Then something about the FBI and CIA, and “I’ll cut you to the bone,” and some demented laughing. Something is not right with those blueberries.

Scholastic Records “The Haunted House”

I continue to use a random system to pick records to write about, but I chose this one a few weeks ago and put it off until Halloween—why not! The full title of this Scholastic Records mini–EP is “Selections from THE HAUNTED HOUSE and Other Spooky Poems and Tales.” Read by Paul Hecht and Carole Danell. It came out in 1970. Between the two sides there are 11 tracks in just under 13 minutes. I guess this could be called “spoken word”—though, the performances are very “theatrical”—so each monologue is more of the feeling of a radio play. I wonder who came up with that term “spoken word?” Maybe the same person who came up with “non-fiction” and “outsider art” and the McDonald’s “Fry.” I guess I had this 7-inch EP as a lad, which is why I still have it—I think the cover was my favorite part—but that’s gone. I wasn’t overjoyed with this record as a 10-year-old, but it’s something you really have to listen to. It’s poetry, literature, some hifalutin’ and some fairly pedestrian. It appeals to me more now, just because it’s an oddball. I don’t remember being exactly thrilled to death with that “Chilling Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House” LP—that you still see in thrift stores—either. The Halloween stuff has gone overboard in recent years, but I guess I still feel it’s somewhat healthy—just making some good times out of horror and death. My favorite is still “The Great Pumpkin”—it’s really tragic it’s no longer on broadcast TV—it was like a 50-year tradition for me. Shame on the greedheads who thought it would be a good idea to keep it from people who can’t afford their bullshit streaming service.