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.)

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.

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

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

Gino Vannelli “The Gist of the Gemini”

Astute (or slightly insane) readers of the DJ Farraginous “blog” may recall an interesting mention of Gino Vannelli. Back in school, my friend Scott Suter was my hero after he turned me on to Mott the Hoople (first I’d heard of that band), so when he recommended this record, I rushed out and bought it… and I was… disillusioned. Oh, well, maybe I wasn’t ready for it, as a 16-year-old—and ol’ SS was simply more sophisticated. It sounds much better to me now—though, perhaps, barely. I love songs about the year at hand—generally—the one here, however— “A New Fix For ’76”—is the low point of Side One. But the ballads—which I certainly would have dismissed as a rambunctious lad—appeal to me, now, in my mellow years. The internet helps—briefly, GV is originally from Montreal, is relatively young, and is still out their touring—that makes me happy. You could reach GV, back then, via a New Orleans P.O. box (listed below the credits)—maybe you still can. The album cover is kind of incredible—glossy black with glowing white piano keys, and backlit GV and his giant hair. The inside gets even more lycanthropic—bandmembers’ disembodied heads, each seeming to have been radiated with some kind of follicle fertilizer. You kinda gotta see it. Side Two consists of a composition called: “WAR SUITE: Prelude to The War, The Battle Cry, To The War, Carnal Question, After the Last Battle, To The War (Reflection), Summers of My Life.” And they fit it all in. The limitations (in length) of the vinyl era (as opposed to the CD era) were often an undeniable strength. That last number, “Summers…” is technically credited as part of WAR SUITE—but it’s definitely a departure—quite welcome—and it’s my mellow favorite of the record.

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.

Kim Carnes “Mistaken Identity”

I was working at Trophy World, downtown Sandusky, Ohio, the first part of 1981, fulltime, and usually it was slow—the last of the watching-the-clock jobs—a clock with hands that didn’t move—I didn’t know any better. The worst thing, though, was the Top 40 radio that “had” to be on while the store was open. I’m sure my boss didn’t care for it any more than I did, but I wasn’t smart enough to—I don’t know—confident enough, to… change the station? Anyway, what I remember from that time is horrible, soul-shriveling, psychically-wounding hit songs, the same dozen or so every hour, day after day. There was only one exception—“Bette Davis Eyes.” I had no idea who this Kim Carnes was, but I wanted to date her. I do remember an annoying video. (But that may have been later? Anyway, I didn’t care for music videos—and like them even less, now.) I think I even bought the single (well, I owned one for a while, don’t possess it now). I recently picked up this $3 LP, curious as to the rest of it. Did I ever see this record? Besides the annoying ransom note graphic (it’s okay), there’s a great photo of Kim Carnes in a creepo setting—but wearing a very pretty dress. Is she in the Witness Protection Program? Behind her, there’s a guy with an unworldly slim waist (or is it a woman?), white shirt and suspenders and shoulder holster—watching out a window. The back cover photo is pure David-Lynch-Land.

As you might expect, nothing else on the record sounds like “Bette Davis Eyes.” It’s really kind of a bummer, in that the songs are okay, for the most part, and I love Kim Carnes’ singing, and the production isn’t particularly bad for an Eighties record—but overall, production and arrangements sound like 1981—which is well along in an era of pop music that I just can’t get into. When looking at records I don’t know anything about, if I see it’s from 1981 (really, 1977 or later), I won’t touch it, because chances are, I won’t be able to listen to it more than once. But I’m trying to give this record more of a chance than I normally would. You could probably fool someone into thinking “Break the Rules Tonite” is a Rod Stewart song—at least right at the beginning—it’s sounds like that later blues rock I can do without—way too coked up. Anyway, he’s the singer that Kim Carnes most sounds like. “When I’m Away from You” is a great song, actually—you could fit it right on the second side of “Every Picture Tells a Story” and (until it goes on for too long) fool someone into thinking it’s always been there.

“Bette Davis Eyes” was written by Donna Weiss and Jackie “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” DeShannon in 1974 (which is a year I particularly like, for music). I had never thought to look up her original recording of that song (until now) and it’s shocking how different it is—the original is a good song, but not particularly exciting (unless you were really concentrating on the lyrics)—the arrangement is pretty mainstream and way too jaunty. It’s pretty cool that Kim Carnes and her band decided to make that song into something else entirely—something unusual, a little weird, and certainly inspired—it’s honestly too good to have become a number one hit song—but there you go. A combination of that distinctive synth sound, the simplicity of the arrangement, Kim Carnes’ excellent singing, and some great lyrics. I particularly always loved that inspired rhyme: “precocious” (and later, “ferocious”)—in the middle of a line— rhymed with “pro blush” at the end of the next line. It’s a not quite a rhyme, and the rhythm is weird, and who would ever say: “what it takes to make a pro blush?” Which makes those lyrics poetry—and me still able to listen to this song—and remember being 21, and this brief reprieve from time standing still.

The Fireflies “I Can’t Say Goodbye” / “What Did I Do Wrong”

A nice doo-wop 45 from 1959—an old record, from before I was born. You would think I might have some deeply rooted nostalgia for doo-wop—but I just don’t—I’ve never been that big a fan, and I don’t even have any memories of similar music as a young kid. I must have heard some on the radio when I was really young, but I just don’t recall it. But hearing it on this record makes me happy—maybe it’s because of the ancient, organic medium—45 RPM record, that is. Odd… it kind of sounds like it’s from—not just many, many generations ago—but from another era. Era, I guess it is. Or is it an epoch? Era or epoch? Maybe it’s because it’s playing at home on my cobbled together system. Pure analog warmth. I can enjoy it. There’s a little bit about this band on the internet—they were from Long Island. It sounds like they had a bunch of records out. Another cool thing about this one is the really excellent looking label: “Ribbon”—which is a black background with a kind of cartoon-drawing orange ribbon—it’s quite attractive. The songs—“I Can’t Say Goodbye”—a lament to a lapsed lover—and “What Did I Do Wrong”—the hard questions posed to a lapsed lover (though maybe he’s simply asking himself)—are not real great sentiments. Melancholy, sure, and a little pathetic. But the guitar on the second one—kind of a Hawaiian guitar sound (to me, anyway) gives it a bit of a surreal flavor that I really like.

The Wildcats “What Are We Gonna Do in ’64?” / “3625 Groovy Street”

File under “songs with numbers in the titles.” Weirdly, the A-side sounds too fast, and the B-side too slow—but at least “3625” has a nice groove to it—and a great title (“3625 Groovy Street”)—which is also the chorus—sung in a goofy, singsong by what sounds like three teenage girls. Who are The Wildcats? I’m not spending all day on the internet to (attempt to) find out—so it remains a mystery. Apparently the “Hazlewood” noted as songwriter (both songs) is indeed Lee Hazlewood—one of my favorite songwriters ever. Makes sense, this is on Reprise, and “3625 Groovy Street” sounds like something he’d come up with. “’64” has its moments—a really hot guitar solo, in that old rock’n’roll guitar style—really nice one. The gist of that song is, we’ve learned The Twist, etc., and so forth, but that’s old hat—so what are we gonna do in ’64? “Will it be something strange and new or will it be something old and blue?” That’s the (sung) question. What were the fads in 1964? There was that Troll Doll. Dumb, but much better than Internet Trolls. I don’t know what else. I know there was this record, with some groovy organ and hot guitar and enthusiastic singing teen-sounding girls. For me, personally, I’m sure there was a lot new—being four years old—but I can’t really remember it! Heavy drinking and smoking weed were, for me, still a decade off.