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.

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.

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.

Terry Gibbs “Vibes on Velvet”

Nothing starts out much smoother than this record—I guess it’s a five saxophone, ten (or so) piece orchestra—the beginning of “Autumn Nocturne”—and then the vibraphone comes in, and it goes even smoother, if that’s even possible. I guess I’m kind of partial to vibes—standards with orchestra and vibes—the kind of late Fifties early Sixties cocktail den jazz—because that’s (as I said before) what I listened to in my crib (baby crib, not bachelor pad). I suppose when they named the record “Vibes on Velvet,” smoothness was what they had in mind. There are extensive liner notes covering half the back album cover, if you’re interested in some serious biographical information. Also, a bit of selling—of this record, that is. It’s charming to imagine a time when a person might pick up an LP in a record store, and that small, serious, print would function as a selling tactic. Imagine! The cover is a closeup of a vibraphone, and some mallets—it’s pleasant, but not spectacular like the other Terry Gibbs record I have—it looks like a jazz album from the year it came out, 1956. Terry Gibbs released a ton of records—I’m not even going to count what the internet lists—but this was part of his first half-dozen. It’s an early one. And he’s still around! He’ll be 100 in October! Some of my very favorite standards are here, including “Mood Indigo,” “It Might as Well Be Spring,” and one of my major obsessions, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Really good versions, too. Plus, others I don’t know like the back of my hand, but still sound like remembering dreams. There are three Terry Gibbs originals—that are great, as well, and sound pretty familiar to me, too—maybe because I’ve played this record more times than I realize. I’d play it even more if I had a rec-room, with cocktails and mellow lighting, and I was entertaining dates with romantic intentions.

Frank Sinatra “The Voice” EP

How many records start out with the words: “A cigarette…” Well, probably far too many—or maybe just this one. I have (and may have written about) the LP version of this record (both from 1955)—which probably has twelve songs, while this has four. The funny thing is, they have the exact same photo—a portrait of young Frank Sinatra, smiling, with a pool-table-green background—it’s just that this one is a “closeup” of his face—on cardboard scaled down to seven inches. The four songs here are: “These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You),” “Laura,” “She’s Funny That Way,” and “Fools Rush In.” Those are four of the best. These are older recordings… I’m not sure how many times Sinatra recorded each of these songs, but this quiet, ballad style of his older recordings—with minimal orchestra—well, it’s there, but voice in the foreground—I really like. If this was the only Sinatra record I owned—well, that’d be very sad—but I’d really have the essence of this era Sinatra. These are four seriously romantic, melancholy, mellow, sad songs. Is there anything in contemporary pop music this quiet and beautiful? Well, I’m sure there is—I just don’t know contemporary pop music. The only thing that comes to mind, for me, is Lana Del Rey.

One odd and funny extraneous detail here: the random song review selector picked two four-song EPs in a row—this one, and previously, the Iron Oxide record. So, similar format—very different approach to sonic output—but I like them both a lot. The really weird thing is, this record is also pressed on coffee-colored vinyl! I’m just kidding. It’s black (licorice-colored vinyl)—ho hum. But I almost thought it was for a second, because the label is that that older, red Columbia label—it’s a dark red, I think it’s carmine—almost maroon—which I like much better (including the lettering and style) than that red Columbia label (I think of it as contemporary—but I guess it’s the one from the Seventies). I’m always picking on the Columbia label—I don’t know why. Ubiquitous and boring? I’m sure I’d change my tune if I was signed to Columbia—don’t things always work that way? That nightmarish four-wheeled contraption, spewing toxic clouds and green fluid—once you get the keys—goes from hideous beast to love of your life.

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.

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.

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.

Dorothy Donegan “at the Embers”

Album cover photos don’t get much better than this one—four well-dressed people sitting at a bar on movable stools, the kind without backs, and tubular steel footrests at the bottom. Two women are on the center stools—wearing skirts and stockings (the photo is cropped above their waists)—and they have slipped off their shoes, which are on the floor below. It’s a rather suggestive photo for 1957. Also, a little weird. I’m not exactly sure what it says, but it seems to say a lot. One would like to assume it’s taken at “The Embers”—and there is music in the air. Drinking is going on, definitely. The men may be more focused on the woman than the woman are on the men. The band is a small jazz combo, sounds like a trio, dominated by piano that I assume is Dorothy Donegan—and her playing is kind of nuts, if I can say it. A lot of energy, and then some. Mostly standards. I have always particularly loved the name “The Embers” for a bar, nightclub, or restaurant—it’s the best.

I wouldn’t call this music “jaunty,” exactly—but it’s definitely not laid back. I might call it “caffeinated”—which I like more than jaunty (the word and the sentiment). It’s certainly energetic. It’s kind of like… why not play 100 notes, where one will do, if you can work in 100 notes. I read a little bit about Dorothy Donegan—classically trained, from Chicago, put out a dozen-and-a-half records from the Forties to the Nineties, but was best known for live performances. Wikipedia notes she was “the first African American to perform at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall”—in 1943. She criticized sexism in the music industry. She was a protegee of Art Tatum. She “was known for performing stride and boogie-woogie, as well as be-bop, swing, and classical.” When you put all those together, what do you get? Rock’n’roll. I’m just kidding—but listen to the short number called “Donegan Walk”—which sounds more like rock’n’roll than most music that calls itself rock’n’roll—it’s my favorite on the record. It’s credited to Dorothy Donegan, as is another one called “DDT”—another rockin’ out number that I’m guessing isn’t named after the insecticide. Maybe it’s “Dorothy Donegan plus something that starts with “T”—(Time, Terror, Tyrannosaurus?). I also very much like some of the standards I know—in particular, a nuts version of “That Old Black Magic,” “Just in Time,” a nice slow version of “My Funny Valentine,” and a hot version of “Lullaby in Birdland” that won’t put you to sleep. All of them are good.

Even though it’s an album cover you might want to hang on your wall, don’t do it! For one thing, you’ve got to protect the record. And for another, you’ll miss the liner notes on back—pretty good ones, though uncredited, which is weird. Even more weird, whoever formatted the liner notes obviously didn’t read them—I won’t go into details, but there are errors—how does that stuff happen—even in 1957? A lot about the Embers—a nightclub/restaurant on East 54^th Street in New York. It was on East 54^th Street, I guess—I looked it up—long gone now—just hideous skyscrapers there, now. Though it’s (was) just around the corner from Dee Dee Ramone Corner. I guess they served food there, too, and for a moment, the liner notes seem to want to turn into a restaurant review—or maybe the author was just hungry! Mostly, it’s some glowing words about Dorothy Donegan and her very popular live performances. A Time Magazine writer is even quoted: “Dorothy shuts her eyes. Her feet begin to pound the floor. Her face contorts as if she were in agony. What comes out is pure Donegan. It has the customers shagging in their seats.” What’s that mean? Well, either they are baseball players, catching fly balls for practice, or they’re f**king!

Mott the Hoople “The Hoople”

There is no way in the world I can listen to this record with the least sense of objectivity—even after 50 years! Yes, it’s been 50 years since I bought this one, and it still plays great—I think it’s my original copy—and it was, indeed, when I was 14 years old, my favorite record for a while. I played it obsessively, obsessed over it, and never got over it. I suppose there is something kind of hopeful about the fact that when I put this record on it takes me right back to that time and place and the person I was then. That’s the power of music, but so much for objectivity. Though—of course I hear it somewhat differently—in that I’ve had half a century of listening to other music, and listening is always a learning experience. I’m sure I hear more, now, and I hear deeper and with a greater degree of understanding and sophistication. So… I’m happy to report that it actually sounds better now than it did back then.

I wrote a “review” back in 2008—when I was less wordy—two sentences—there was more of interest in the comments. Then, around 2018 I went to the Mott the Hoople ’74 show—I think that’s what they called it—great to see Ian Hunter live. I might have said before, this is the odd band in that their best two albums were their last two (this one, and “Mott,” the year before). I mean, that’s my opinion—but it’s like they evolved into this excellence—where most bands evolve to the point where they’re at their peak for the first few albums and then it’s all downhill from there. The album cover is somewhat of an iconic one—a life-size, high-contrast photo of a woman (I wonder who is this “Kari-Ann?”) In her large, large hair are images superimposed of the band members. Ian Hunter, naturally with sunglasses. Really excellent longtime rhythm section Dale Griffin and Overend Watts (both who had sadly passed away before that 2018 tour. But the “new guys,” Morgan Fisher and madman “Ariel Bender” (Luther Grosvenor) were playing. All of them—in the model’s hair, on the cover—had great hair. At the 2018 show—when I looked around the audience, I estimated that about 80% (including me) were balding.

I’ll put it on for the… what? Maybe 2000^th time… see what it sounds like. My first observation is really obvious—so much so, I guess, that I failed to ponder it over the years and listenings—there’s a funny intro at the beginning of “The Golden Age of Rock’n’Roll” (“Ladies and gentlemen…”) which kind of sets the whole album up as a kind of theatrical show—which it really is—kind of an album length hard rock opera. It’s not really hard rock—though it is, too—that would be the guitar element. The piano, strings, horns, backing vocals, and ridiculously complex song structures and over-the-top production is pure showtune. All of that can be heard in the in the second song, “Marionette,” which is kind of a mini-hard-rock-opera within the opera. (A theatrical production would feature, no doubt, full-on puppet show.) Third song already, “Alice,” is the best on the record (my opinion, but while I’m at it, I’ll say it’s the best ever Mott the Hoople and/or Ian Hunter song). At the risk of sounding like YouTube comments, I’d say this song is one of the most overlooked five minutes in the entire history of rock’n’roll. Rather than attempt to say why and fail, I’ll just leave it up to the reader who has forgotten it to give it another listen… and for those who’ve never heard it… well.

I just noticed that “Crash Street Kidds” has two “Ds” on Kidds—why? Usually that indicates a name (though, not “Billy the Kid”). By coincidence, right now, I’m reading (it’s a long book) Dhalgren, by Samuel R. Delany, which also came out in 1974. The main character is sometimes “Kid” and sometimes “Kidd”—could it be possible that the hyperliterate Ian Hunter was reading it? Who knows. The only song not written by Hunter, “Born Late ’58” is by Overend Watts (and sung by him). It was my favorite on the record for a long time—though always inextricably connected to a gin blackout—maybe a deprogramming would be in order by this point. Also, when I was 14, I didn’t care for “Trudi’s Song” or “Through the Looking Glass” (the ballads), but now I love those songs. That’s one change, over time. “Pearl ’n’ Roy (England)” is probably my second favorite on the record, and another rock showtune. As is “Roll Away the Stone,” which is the perfect bookend with “The Golden Age…” and closes out the show.

I never noticed, on the bottom of the lyrics inner sleeve, a “Write Mott” address: c/o Josephine Targo/114 7^th Avenue/New York 10011. I tried searching, but just got a ham & cheese croissant on TikTok—which just made me tired. Zillow shows a closet with a kitchenette for a million dollars. It’s hard to search Manhattan—even the ghosts have been priced out. Record company person? Fan club? Who knows. At one point, when I first heard about (and read some of) those 33 1/3 books—each one about a record—I loved the idea so much I thought I might submit a proposal. My idea was to write about this record. I never got any further than thinking a lot about it. Their requirements for book proposals are pretty rigorous (as it should be), and I didn’t think I was up to the deep dive this album (and Mott the Hoople) deserves. It would be a shame not to interview Ian Hunter and the other surviving band members, for one thing. Maybe someone’s written one of those books about this record, or another Mott LP, by now—I haven’t checked lately. I think it’s a deceptively difficult project—I mean that size and scope of a book. Not easy to write something that lengthy about a record (especially one you love) without fluff—and at the same time—if it’s your favorite record ever—that short. But hey, now that I’m thinking about it again, maybe I’ll give it another try.