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.)

José Miguel Class “Trofeos Otorgados A José Miguel Class – El Gallito De Manati”

Without knowing anything about this record, I really like it just for how much of a time and place it sounds—it gives me the feeling of, say, the Forties (1940s)—even though I wasn’t remotely born yet, so I don’t really know what it would be like living then—what music I’d be hearing on the wind. Also, the feeling of a far-off (from Wisconsin, that is) land, such as one where English isn’t the primary language—and I guess it’s Spanish—and is sung in a very romantic, emotive style—bordering on corny—but good corny. I’d only be off by a few decades—in the Forties, José Miguel Class would have been a young boy, in Manati, Puerto Rico—maybe listening to music that sounds like this? According to the internet, he was born in the Thirties—grew up to be a famous singer in Puerto Rico, and later moved to Mexico. The “Discogs” site lists 85 record releases—but I can’t find one that matches to this record, exactly. My best guess is that it’s from the Seventies, though I may be wrong. You can use your internet to translate—somewhat—but you still need the context to really get it right. I don’t know what the songs are about, but they certainly sound romantic to me! And the liner notes are in Spanish, so the best thing I can do is describe what’s in front of me. Maybe it would be better if I always did that—and didn’t rely on the internet—like when I’m in a cabin in the North Woods. Which, to be honest, is where I wish I was right now.

The music is up-tempo, energetic (without being jaunty), with the vocals up front. In every song he sounds like he’s trying to convince us of something—maybe just the color of the story he’s telling. He’s got a compelling voice. There are lot of words—clear as bell. The album cover features José Miguel Class (I’m assuming) in the middle of a giant, pink, heart—on-stage pose—his hands beckoning for us. A young man with good hair, what looks like a gold tooth, and one of those thin moustaches, just above his lip. (In pictures on the internet, where he’s older, the moustache gets thicker.) He’s wearing a shiny, blue, tux jacket (I used to have an identical one) and a frilly white shirt. Besides his name (in alternating yellow and green letters) it also says, “El Gallito De Manati” (the Rooster of Manati, I believe)—his nickname. Also, there’s a couple of song titles, in large italics—hard to tell what the title of the LP is. There are also nine or so deep, pink, lipstick impressions—like when a woman with lipstick kisses a flat object. The name of the label, “Neliz Records” is in red, green, orange, and purple letters. On back, above the twelve song titles, and liner notes, it says: Trofeos Otorgados A Jose Miguel Class “El Gallito De Manati”—which is also on the label, so I guess is the title. Also, the Puerto Rican address of Neliz Records, and the Bronx, NY address of “Rico Record Dist.” (I looked it up, there’s a pharmacy there.) The record label is great—I’d be tempted to steal it (style, color, font)—the bottom half is black text on hot pink, and the top half is a groovy, Sixties-hippie-style Neliz Records logo, blue letters on green. This record’s been through some rough passage, over land and water, traveled many miles, been spun a million times. But it still sounds warm and excellent.

Paul Horn “Dream Machine”

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

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

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.

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?

Canyon Spells “Now That We’re Gone”

Where did I get this record? I’m guessing it strolled in while I was sleeping, like my dreams of imaginary cities. I never heard of this band, and the cover (close-up of a male-model-looking astronaut likely floating in space, looking back at Earth—a poetic visual representation of the title) most likely didn’t compel me to fork out record store dollars. I’m not even crazy about owning contemporary (2016) vinyl—on the shelf, it takes up twice the space as old records, and when moving-time comes, that mega-gram stuff adds up. If anyone wants this, and would like to stop by, it’s yours. I figured it would be one of those records I’d listen to once and write something amusing about (it’s a lot easier to be funny when you’re writing a negative review), but alas, I like the record—I like the production, and the playing, and the singing, and in particular, I really like some of the catchy, even intriguing, pop songs. They remind me of someone/something, but I can’t put my finger on it—not surprising, in that I’m pretty ignorant of the last quarter-century-plus of “indie” music. On the other hand, the music is about fifty-percent someone else’s cup of tea. There’s a website with slightly less info than the minimalist album cover—it opens up, revealing the most basic credits on one side, and on the other side, under what looks like a full solar eclipse, a poem. Or it could lyrics, which, by the way, I can understand as sung—but nothing reaches out and grabs me (which is fine, even good)—and I’m too lazy to dwell on them. That brings me around to the name of the band. What does it mean? I’m not going to make a dumb guess because it might be a fairly obvious literary allusion I’m not getting. Or it might simply be two rather good words that, when placed one after another, it’s safe to assume have not been used anytime recently to describe French fries, sell SUVs, on a fascism promoting hat, or as a fucking online game.

Mickey Newbury “His Eye Is on the Sparrow”

If you’re wondering how many Mickey Newbury records I have, the answer is eight. This one is from 1978—wasn’t the Eighties yet—still the decade of the bleak and hopeless. It’s got a very weird cover photo—it’s super grainy, color washed out except for the reds that pop out. It’s a low angle shot of a young, barefoot girl in a white dress, carrying a large, red flower. I don’t know if she is a young girl, actually, or a small, young woman. She appears to have brown skin, fairly dark, though the photo is low-light so it’s hard to tell. You also can’t tell her nationality, for sure. Even though the photo is somewhat blurry and abstracted, you definitely get a sense that she’s overwhelmed—maybe frightened. In the foreground are painted street lines—she’s in a city street, maybe very early in the morning. In the background, the bottoms of enormous skyscrapers. Also, some older buildings and a “Jesus Saves” sign. I find it a little disturbing—and what does it mean? Will the clues be in the lyrics to one of the songs? All I can do is listen and speculate.

It’s a quiet, melancholy record, really pretty songs, with forlorn lyrics. Everything is very quiet and understated. There’s only one jaunty hillbilly song (“Gone to Alabama”) and even that takes a soulful turn. There are plenty of Jesus references (the title song, in particular, which is a traditional Christian song), but it’s all about needing the strength to go on. That is, it’s not about glory, but about survival. My favorite on the record is “It Don’t Matter Anymore”—a particularly pretty song—it’s short and sweet, and bleak. Mickey Newbury can write a beautiful song, that’s for sure. They are pretty much all beautiful on this record—it may be my favorite of his yet. I think I’ll leave this one out for a while and treat it like I just bought it at the 1978 store and see what it does to me. I guess I’m thinking that the cover might have something to do with the first song—“Juble Lee’s Revival,” because it’s also the last song, “Juble Lee’s Revival Shout”—I’m not really sure what it’s about, but it’s certainly peering, somewhat, into the abyss, by the end. As is the whole record, to some degree.

Skeeter Davis “Skeeter Sings Standards”

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!

100 Proof (Aged in Soul) “Somebody’s Been Sleeping in My Bed”

I grabbed this album—beat-up as it is—because I had no idea what it was—the cover is a photo of a bird nest with an egg (looks like a chicken egg) with a red question mark on it. Meaning? I have no idea, but considering the record’s title—when that egg hatches, will it be my offspring or this joker who’s been sleeping in my bed? On the back cover the nest is empty, and there’s a dead bird—kind of ominous. The label is Hot Wax—there’s a funny cartoon drawing with a flaming turntable and melting letters logo. My copy looks partially melted—it’s a little warped, the edge ragged, and beat to hell—but it still sounds great. Apparently the band was from Detroit—only released a couple of albums—this one from 1970. I bet I heard a couple of these songs on Motor City AM radio at the time.

The title song has a good funk groove and some great lines, like: “Cigarettes in the ashtray, and I don’t even smoke.” Kind of alternates between mellow soul and energetic funk—lots of fun songs. “One Man’s Leftovers (Is Another Man’s Feast)”—can’t go wrong with that title. “I’ve Come to Save You” is a standout—a really pretty number. “Ain’t That Lovin’ You (For More Reasons Than One)” starts off with spoken dialogue—a smooth talker trying to seduce a woman—followed by some ultra-smooth soul singing—a lovely song. Then we return to them in the middle of the song—he’s still trying—and then even lovelier (if that’s possible) verses, chorus, bridge. It’s an epic. And then, finally, at the end of this very, very long song—it sounds like he’s worn her down. It’s a little disconcerting, honestly, but also a pretty great song. Another good one is “Too Many Cooks (Spoils the Soup)”—a sentiment that holds especially true if one of those cooks is sleeping in your bed.

Laura Nyro “Christmas and the Beads of Sweat”

I’m continuing my project of writing about all the Laura Nyro records—I mean, of course, when their number comes up. I believe I’ve written about one, so far—I should re-read what I’ve written, so I don’t repeat myself, but I’m not going to—I’m not lookin’ back, baby. I am, however, taking my time. Her records, I feel, are like certain food—let’s say, Marmite, which is excellent and cool, but if you start putting in on everything from toast to eggs, rice, potatoes, and what have you—even popcorn… it might well turn on you. I don’t think I mentioned seeing that David Geffen documentary somewhere. The most interesting part, for me, was the part about his working with Laura Nyro—it sounded like he was her biggest fan, maybe obsessed with her even, and then (as I’m remembering) she kind of abandoned him and went with Columbia records. I found it pretty heartbreaking, and it gave me a soft spot for Geffen. But you can’t blame someone, either, for signing with Columbia, no matter who they are—that’s like a lifetime goal. (Though personally, as far as surface aesthetics go, Columbia is my most dreaded label.)

I have the desire to not approach this record song by song, even though there are lyrics on the back—rendered in a font called “Barely Legible Diary”—I’m just kidding, but it could be true. Of course, it’s possible, seeing how this was 1970, that they were actually written out by someone. It could even have been Laura Nyro. At any rate, I am making a decision not to listen to the entire record while following along with lyrics. Honestly, with most music I halfway ignore lyrics. I don’t think I could understand very much of what Laura Nyro is singing, just listening, because she really abstracts the words—and I like that. But I feel like reading along takes away from what she’s doing with her voice—even to the extent of trading in intellectual meaning for emotional meaning—so I’m choosing to ignore the written words, for now. I have however, read and understood enough to know they’re about seasons, nature, God, and love, and are in some cases overtly political. Maybe for another time.

As far as the songs go, I like to take this record as side one, then side two, like those are song suites. They aren’t, but they do flow together almost as if that’s the case. Apparently, it’s different musicians on side one and side two—so I presume different recording sessions. The one song not written by Laura Nyro is “Up On the Roof,” the Gerry Goffin/Carole King song that was a hit for The Drifters—well before my time, but I’ve heard it done by quite a few people. It’s a great song, and this is a fine version, and being at the end of Side One, it reinforces the idea of the two sides being like two acts in a show. Seeing how the album is named “Christmas and the Beads of Sweat,” one is inclined to pay closer attention to the second-to-last song, “Beads of Sweat,” but sadly it’s my least favorite song on the record. Not that it’s terrible, it’s fine, especially in album context—but it’s just too upbeat and jaunty for me, and I don’t like the guitar. The following number, and last song on the record, the X-mas one, titled, “Christmas in My Soul,” is very nice, a long, slow one, perfect to close out the record.

I particularly like the song, “Upstairs by a Chinese Lamp,” which I heard somewhere and got kind of obsessed with. I have no idea why. It’s a lovely, atmospheric song, for sure, even kind of diaphanous and hard to put a bright light on because on closer examination it’s like mist, and it dissipates. But in this case, for me, that’s a good thing—I like that about this song. I heard an instrumental version somewhere—I don’t remember, maybe it was a jazz artist—maybe before I heard this one. That might have been what got me hooked on the song. In fact, it might have led me to Laura Nyro. A couple of other favorites are, “When I Was a Freeport and You Were the Main Drag” (great title), and “Blackpatch” (a really catchy pop song).

Oh, and the album cover I love—one of my favorites. I assumed it was a drawing, but when I look at it more closely, I’m convinced it’s a photo that’s blown up and degraded. Maybe it’s a process I don’t know. (It’s credited: “Cover portrait by Beth O’Brien.”) Anyway, it’s quite lovely and haunting. I always assumed the little flower earring was colored red by a previous owner, but since seeing other copies, I realized they just made it look that way—and really pulled it off. I have a version, as well, without the album and artist name on the cover. No words whatsoever on the cover, which is impressive. The copy I have, with the record marks, and age, dirt, and some stains, just becomes more beautiful.