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.

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.

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!

Tommy Roe “Dizzy” / “The You I Need”

The B-side, “The You I Need” is a decent if vapid and jaunty pop song—but did I ever listen to it? Maybe not. Probably once. It’s like two minutes long, yet contains a corny key change. “Dizzy,” however, is a pop love song masterpiece. I personally consider it… not one of the best… but the best. Besides the melody, and the way the low-key verses work with the ascending chorus, it’s the drums (corny, but they make the song) and the strings, which function like another percussion instrument. This might be the first record I ever owned—probably not, but I’m sure one of my first half-dozen 45s (well before I bought LPs). It’s amazing that I still have the exact same record—my initials stuck on the label twice. It’s traveled around with me for 50 years—how did that happen? And it still plays! Not real well, but if it was the last version on Earth, you could live with it. This is one of the records (along with “I Think I Love You”) that I associate with my first crush on a girl, third grade or so. Every time I’d listen to it, then, my heart would practically melt (you know, like the guy in the song). And that went on for years—long after the crush had gone its way. And the weird thing—to this day—the song does the same thing to me. It really does. Which leads me to believe I can’t be trusted. It’s not the best song ever recorded. It’s not even my favorite all-time song. But it’s the purest personal example of nostalgia overwhelming all other faculties.

All this time, and I’ve never even bothered to look up who wrote the song, when the record came out, etc. Okay—1968 release—so third grade, like I thought. I mean, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be an eight-year-old—I guess I always assumed a simple-minded munchkin. Yet… here I was with a full spectrum of emotions and a sophisticated musical appreciation—to the extent that I’ve never grown out of it. That’s kind of incredible. It was written by Tommy Roe (he did write a lot of his hits, I believe) and Freddy Weller, another Sixties singer and songwriter with a similar haircut to Tommy Roe. What was the collaboration like, I wonder, with Tommy and Freddy? And the musicians? Of course… The Wrecking Crew. That doesn’t surprise me at all. Hal Blaine is playing those drums. Jimmie Haskell with the sting arrangement. It was probably part of a day’s work in some LA studio for those cats—I mean, I’m sure they were cool with it—probably happier with some recordings than others. When it became a number one hit, I’m sure that was sweet. But how many people are there, out there, like me, for whom this song is it? A few people covered it, of course, but most notably, Wreckless Eric—one of my all-time favorites. And the first punk band I was in, the Bursting Brains, we even played it (probably at my insistence). One of those “life goals,” ticked off.

Steely Dan “The Royal Scam”

Like I said before, since I’m writing about individual Steely Dan songs elsewhere, I’m going to try to keep this review short (short is the new way—at least I’m trying)! So I’m not even delving into lyrics at all here (which is half the fun with this band). This is maybe the most consistent SD record, song for song—nine songs with no weak links—and in fact, as you’re listening to it, you get the sensation that each song is just a little better than the last, just because there is no letup in excellence. In retrospect, and at this point in time, I’d have to say my favorite song on the album is “The Caves of Altamira”—which, oddly, wasn’t even one I thought much about for the first 40 years of putting this record on the turntable. Maybe it was a little to poppy for me with that chorus, or the horns (now my favorite thing on the record), but at some point, something really clicked, and it became kind of a “soundtrack for my life” song. For people who flip out over virtuosity and innovation—for a band that’s never lacking there—this one’s got some real standout musicians—particularly Paul Griffin and Larry Carlton (not to take away rest of the who’s who). It might be the most guitar-heavy SD record, but that’s just one of the distinctive things about. It fits right in with the rest of their records, and actually does sound like a progression between “Katy Lied” and “Aja.”

To try to put this in the context of 1976 is almost impossible, because it doesn’t remind me of anything else from that year—but I’ve got to look—what was I listening to in ’76? Bob Dylan “Desire” and the live LP “Hard Rain”—both of which I can still listen to. Besides those, however, I bought a lot of other records, around 1976, that I don’t exactly put on for pleasure or nostalgia these days! Including: Blue Oyster Cult “Agents of Fortune,” Bob Seger “Night Moves,” Alan Parsons Project—that E.A. Poe record, Al Stewart “Year of the Cat,” Kansas “Leftoverture,” Rush “2112,” Genesis “A Trick of the Tail”—it’s a little sobering to see what records came out that year! Most of it doesn’t date well with me. And there were other bands that I was already completely through with. Of course, then, there was other 1976 stuff that I didn’t come around to until years and years later. (And some stuff I haven’t gotten to yet.) But none of it really feels like it was coming from remotely the same planet as this record.

This could be the best Steely Dan album, and one of the best records in my (relatively small) vinyl collection. It’s not my favorite, but it’s right up there—as it’s a record that never stopped getting better—I mean, every time I put it on—since I first bought it in the vicinity of when it came out in 1976. At that point I did own their previous four LPs, and I remember my 16-year-old self finding this one a bit of a disappointment—not totally, of course—but it just took longer to connect—or maybe I was just through with SD, at that point. I lost patience with bands pretty fast—after a few records I was often done with them, and onto something new. Most bands I’d never come back to, once I was over them. For some reason, though, I came back to Steely Dan as an obsession—partly because of the way they age, compared with everything else—and partly it was just listening more closely, and paying attention to the lyrics. But still, this one did take me awhile.

The album cover didn’t help—being almost too hideous for me to consider any longer than it took for me to place it facing the wall. I have to force myself to look at it even now. Maybe it’s time to reconsider it. There’s a fully dressed man sleeping on some kind of a bench—and collaged above him—as if he’s dreaming them—four urban high-rises, the tops of which have morphed into hideous animal heads. I never really thought about how the creatures aren’t even remotely related—aside from their carnivorous jaws—one is all mouth (what we can see). One is a scaly, fanged serpent, and one looks like it could be in the large rodent family—I don’t know. What I’ve never noticed is the low-key one, top right—without its jaws wide—is rather cute—some kind of a large cat. Anyway, I always thought the sleeping guy was on a park bench—but it’s obviously an indoor resting spot—one of those long benches in the lobbies of big, old buildings, that probably has steam heat radiators underneath it—which might be contributing to the guy’s urban nightmares. The back cover is an extreme closeup of his socks and shoes—and we see that one of the soles is worn through. The inner sleeve has lyrics (extremely welcome with SD records!) and an odd, sepia tone photo of Becker and Fagen—their heads doubled, like a prism—presented in a small (6 inch tall) trapezoid shape. There’s a small, elite group who ever present anything in a trapezoid—so that’s kind of mysterious. It’s also, possibly, the coolest photo I’ve ever seen of Walter Becker. He was certainly, at one time, one of the more mysterious figures of pop music. Donald Fagen was, too (and still is), but here he looks like Tiny Tim.

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.

Jackie Gleason “Lonesome Echo”

There is some crazy string shit going on—which should say it all—but for a more eloquent variation of that assessment, I’ll quote the liner notes on back: “…an exotic string combination: mandolins, ’cellos, and domras (richer, deeper mandolins), augmented by guitars and marimba.” Seeing how ol’ Salvador Dali is involved in this escapade, and I never heard of domras, I figured they might be imaginary—but I looked ’em up, nonetheless, on Emerac, and naturally it is an instrument. But this next part must be from the surreal dreamscape: it claims that throughout the record the featured solo instrument is “the rare oboe d’amour…” That’s got to be rich. But, no, that’s a real thing too—a slightly larger oboe—“whose melancholy tone is hauntingly displayed in each of these favorite selections.” By none less than Romeo Penque—believe it or else. The entire album flows together like a night of haunted dreams, but there’s some standout tracks, as well. Just the ones I immediately recognize include: “I Don’t Know Why,” “Deep Purple” (my very favorite on the record), “Come Rain or Come Shine,” “How Deep is the Ocean,” “A Garden in the Rain,” and “Dancing on the Ceiling” (a song featured in my upcoming dystopian novel). As with all the “Jackie Gleason presents…” mood music LPs, this one is long—no less than eight tracks per side. You may even be able to get to third base before having to flip the record.

Besides the striking concoction of stringed and woodwind oddities, the unique collaboration on this 1955 record is the endorsement of, as I mentioned above, artist Salvador Dali, who has provided the album cover. This is absolutely one of those records you’d buy for the cover alone, if that is something you do. I’ve been guilty of it myself, though I don’t normally endorse the idea—plus, I listen to everything, at least once. The nice thing here is that the cover matches the music exquisitely. It’s probably a well-known one, and you can spot it a mile away (or from across the Goodwill). It’s a barren landscape with a butterfly (or moth) on the end of a cane (or spear) in the foreground, which casts a long shadow on a stone ruin (or a Taco Bell). There is a seashell in the foreground, indicating that we’re near the seashore (or else a desert that used to be the sea, eons ago). Then far-off, there’s a woman wearing an exotic red robe, leaving us (already far enough away, possibly, to be but a memory). And then, beyond her, a mandolin (or is it a lute? I don’t think it’s a domra). If the perspective is to be believed (and why should it be, this is surrealism), the instrument is the size of a small boat. We should not overlook, as well, the shadow sneaking up behind us, on the left, which I might guess is of the artist himself, except there is no telltale Dali moustache in shadow, which leads me to believe it’s Jackie Gleason (though rather thin—but then it is a shadow). The photo of the two of them on back reminds me that I’d love to see a TV show where they drive around the country (or the world) in an open-roof roadster, stopping off at hamburger drive-ins and root beer stands (or local variations). If they unearth those reels from the vaults, I’ll never miss an episode.

Wilson Pickett “The Sound of Wilson Pickett”

I’ve heard a lot of Wilson Pickett music over the years for not having any of his records—well, maybe I did when I was younger—I know I had some compilations with him on them. Anyway, I know his distinctive voice, his singing style, of course—everyone does. I was listening to some of his stuff online awhile back, and I was finding it pretty unsatisfying—so I was trying to figure out why. I concluded that it was too energetic (for me, at this moment in time, I guess) and too chaotic—really busy arrangements—and too loud, too dense—the horn arrangements dominated—well, almost—his singing still dominated, of course—but it was like he and the horns were fighting for domination. Am I wrong about this? It occurred to me that the difference might be the musical format—I mean digital/streaming vs vinyl. Or maybe it was just me having a bad day. Anyway, today is a good day, because this record sounds great.

But it’s not a good day, it’s just another day—in fact, I feel like shit—at least I did until I started listening to this record—and now I feel good—so I’m trying to figure out what I like about this record better than some other Wilson Pickett I’ve listened to recently. This one’s called The Sound of Wilson Pickett, and it’s from 1967. I think it starts with the lack of (prevalence of) horns—how busy the horns are or aren’t—how upfront in the recording, or how jaunty the horn playing, generally. There are horns here, of course, but they’re not as much in your face. Wilson Pickett’s signing is always in your face, of course, there’s no other way. But on this record, it’s all him.

Then, maybe, it’s the songs. The record starts off perfectly with “Soul Dance Number Three”—which I particularly like because it’s really minimal—mostly guitar, bass, drums—the organ and horns are subtle and minimal—it’s a slow and really deep, repetitious groove. It’s my favorite on the record. Then there’s “Funky Broadway,” which is a little more up-tempo, but the same things apply. This side also has “I Found a Love”—one of my favorite WP songs—here there’s Part I and Part II, A and B side of the single, I guess, two and half and three minutes long. And then the last song on the side is “You Can’t Stand Alone” which is a pretty energetic love song, up-tempo and happy—but the best part is the brief organ solo which sounds just pretty crazy—it jumps right off the record. You could hear a lot more of that, but it’s kind of cool that it’s so brief.

The second side could go ahead and not exist—since the first was fully satisfying—but it’s all really good too. “Mojo Mamma” is my favorite—a killer song (written by Jerry Wexler and the great songwriter, Bert Berns).  Then there’s three Bobby Womack songs in a row, and they’re all excellent. The album cover is that weird shade of orange that I can never see without thinking of the Richard Hell record that looks similar to this one. Wilson Pickett is in front, from the waist up, wearing a sharp blue suit—he’s got an emotional expression on his face like he’s pleading with someone, and his right hand is raised in a way that matches the expression. I suppose what it is—he’s singing, expressing the emotions of the songs from the bottom of his heart—though there’s no microphone in sight—so you don’t immediately think “singing.” But who needs a microphone. And on back, some pretty extensive liner notes by someone named Paul Ackerman—actually very interesting—kind of making the points I did, above, though with more knowledge of the situation. He says the production on this record is particularly good, in part because the musicians are from the deep South—and what is avoided is “excessive instrumentation and chaotic sound.” And then the song selection is varied and good, and the WP written tunes (“Soul Dance,” “I Found a Love”) are very strong. So… I’m agreeing with this dude, partly because he’s agreeing with me—that’s often how it works.

Lou Miami and the Kozmetix “Fascist Lover” / “To Sir with Love”

I’m happy I somehow held onto this 45 since 1982—it’s the kind of thing people steal from you. Plus, I’ve moved at least 30 times since then. It’s on Final Vinyl records and it came in a white plastic bag with pink print—meant to look like a cosmetics bag, I guess. It’s funny and clever—same as the songs. “Fascist Lover” is a fast, poppy punk song—possibly autobiographically about Lou Miami’s origins. Then one of my all-time favorite B-sides, a cover of “To Sir with Love”—which is one of my favorite songs, the Lulu version—and this is even better. I love this recording because it’s both making fun of the song while genuinely in love with it—that’s my take anyway—it’s both campy and heartbreaking. His singing is an irreverent style, but he’s fully committed, and the band is great. The reason I had a copy of this, and even heard of Lou Miami, is because they played in Kent in 1982. They were from the Boston area, and I guess played a lot there—and apparently went on tour. I was out of town, myself, on sabbatical, and I happened to hitchhike to Kent, went to a party after the show in Akron, I think, and passed out, and then my friend Keith told people that I was Lou Miami. I’m not sure if anyone bought it. I either picked up the record at that time, or we still had copies in our record store when I returned to Kent a year later. Lou Miami passed away in 1995, according to his way brief Wikipedia page—but some easy searching will reveal some music (including these songs), some live stuff, videos, and an interview—maybe more. It’s all worth checking out—he and his collaborators had a fun, trashy, weird aesthetic—I like all I’ve seen—and maybe I’ll find more.