The Electric Prunes “Mass in F Minor”

I felt like I had a handle on The Electric Prunes (unless I got them mixed up with the Chocolate Overcoat), but I never pegged them as Christian rockers—so what gives? So I had to resort to the ol’ ’ternet and got something like this: after the band’s first couple of records, their producer hired a classically trained composer to write this religious based concept record—but the guys in the band couldn’t play the crap—so they brought in studio musicians. That’s the crazy Sixties for you! (If they’d asked my opinion, I would have suggested, at that point, that they rename the band—The Eclectic Prunes.) I can only imagine some turmoil there, but the good thing—some version of the Prunes is still together to this day! Oh, wait, that first song, “Kyrie Eleison” is familiar—it’s in Easy Rider—I think the gross dinner scene in New Orleans, just before they get wasted at the cemetery. It’s a scene that always really creeped me out for some reason—it must have been this music! (It’s almost as creepy as the dinner at the commune, earlier, with the mean hippie.) I guess I have to credit that movie, anyway, for compelling me to give psychedelics a wide berth! (I had enough problems with the store-bought and all.) Anyway, I almost took this 1967 record off the player and flung it somewhere—within minutes—if I wanted to listen to chanting, I’d put on beads and an itchy brown robe. Which might be appropriate—after all, the name of the record kind of spells it out—and the cover shows a silver crucifix hanging from some multicolored beads, hovering over what I can only guess is an… itchy brown robe. The back cover, however, is a collage of b&w band photos, with instruments, including one with a dude playing an autoharp—and that one must have sold me. I mean, there is some fine guitar, bass, and drums here, but chanting in Latin—it makes me want to run in any other direction. And I took Latin in high school—wait… maybe that’s at the heart of my aversion. Though, I’ve gotta say, it’s kinda growing on me. (Don’t know what, exactly.) Could work as mood music—if your evening includes incense, bota bags, and shrooms.

Paul Horn “Dream Machine”

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

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

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.

Pink Floyd “Animals”

I was never a Pink Floyd guy, really—some of my friends had the early records—I thought they were cool—and like everyone else, I bought Dark Side of the Moon—but then missed Wish You Were Here (my favorite Pink Floyd record). By the time The Wall came out (1979), I was over them—but this one, when I was 17, was the Pink Floyd record for me. It still takes me back to my confused brain at that confused age. It’s almost painful to listen to. I took in the lyrics without really digesting them—I read George Orwell in high school, but never connected this record to Animal Farm—I didn’t really listen to the lyrics—just took it in as apolitical weirdness. I guess I’ve been bad about making connections my whole life—is there are learning disorder where your brain doesn’t make connections? Like say, you know the word, “Pig” and what it is, but you don’t connect that to the animal known as a pig? That would be me. Maybe it’s not a learning disorder at all—just dumbness. Is being a dummy a clinical condition? If it is, that’s me.

It’s almost painful to admit now how much this record was an influence on me—at a time when I was doing art (collages and drawing), writing songs and playing music (our “band,” the Chinese Electrical Band), and writing poetry. Wiser people than me would go back and round up that 17-year-old Pink Floyd inspired poetry and eradicate it with extreme prejudice—but that’s not me. I admit it, and I can live with it, and I can laugh at myself. When I first put this on, as a new record (1977) and listened to the 1:24 acoustic first song, “Pigs on the Wing (Part One)” I wondered for a minute and a half if the whole record would be acoustic guitar folk music—and then the second song, a 17-minute song called “Dogs,” answered that question. It’s depressive, wanky guitar rock, but kind of lovely, too—I think, now—because it’s relatively sparse and minimal. “Pigs (Three Different Ones)”—over 11 minutes—has a wonderfully dated sound—a steady cowbell from yonder barn. The 10-minute “Sheep” so much influenced music our band was playing at that time, it makes me want to go hide. But that’s funny. All these songs might be grim, serious, doom-laden, preachy, even a little scary—but underneath all that, pop-song hooks come first.

I loved the album cover—I assumed it was a factory in Middle Earth (I guess it’s an old power station). Could be a photo, could be a painting—beautiful and harsh, dramatic and mundane—how long did it take me to notice the pig floating between the smokestacks? When a band could refrain from putting any words on their record cover, I was always impressed. It opens and inside still no words, just a dozen black and white photos—could be a first-year photography class critique—I was impressed/not impressed. Anyone could airbrush a floating pig on a landscape, but when I went to the Pink Floyd concert (most likely that summer) at the old Cleveland Stadium, there were actual floating pig dirigibles (I’m thinking other animals, too, but I can’t remember—I was no doubt smoking something, but not anything that good). It was fun going to that concert—it was the largest group of scarily stoned people I’d ever been around—but also disappointing—since we were so far away from the band that they could have been anybody. The sound system (some kind of “quadrophonic” deal) was really impressive, but still, I more or less swore off stadium rock shows at that point. And one day, I didn’t put the record on anymore—and so it’s been, what, maybe 45 years? My Pink Floyd records didn’t survive all the moves, and they usually don’t show up in the cheap bins—but someone named “Judy” rendered her name so confidently in the clouds between two smokestacks—I had to look online to see if that name—about the same size as the floating pig—was part of the design. It isn’t—thus the discount price, in case Judy comes calling for her rightful heirloom.

Spanky & Our Gang “Anything You Choose b/w Without Rhyme or Reason”

I missed out on Spanky & Our Gang—among the sunshine pop purveyors from the Sixties—too young, so I was more in the bubblegum camp, I guess—I was still watching the Little Rascals version (I was also too young, pretty much, for the Young Rascals). I wonder if I didn’t see them on one of those late-nite rock shows—I guess that’s likely—but they never registered with me. I bought this record solely based on the weird cover—it is acid casualty yellow with red and blue highlights—a photograph of the band high-contrasted to beyond the pleasing. The name of the band is so abstracted I couldn’t make it out until I was at home and worked on it for a while. Five dudes with moustaches (Our Gang) and a woman (Elaine “Spanky” McFarlane) in a band pose, probably wearing normal hippie threads, but because of the extreme pupil-dilation-view, they look like they’re wearing radiation suits. The first thought I had was this was a crew hired to go into dangerous radioactive disaster sites to perform heroic deeds. The inner sleeve is even more psychedelic with kaleidoscopic band images carrying over, even, to the actual label—on Mercury, who I guess humored them, though they couldn’t have been huge stars. Though maybe they were—or it was going that way—this is their third LP, from 1969.

They do that indulgent, annoying thing—naming the sides: “Side A” and “Side 1”—okay, we get it, but that’s not helpful for us not free enough to just put on “whatever” side first. The music is all over the place, from: “Rather annoying, might not put this on again anytime real soon,” to: “I really like that song a lot and want to hear it again and would put it on a mix tape if I still made mix tapes!” So what I’ll do is ignore the stuff I don’t care for and list the stuff I really like—starting with side… I don’t know… whatever. “And She’s Mine” is an infectious pop number—at least until you listen to the lyrics—“She’s good, she’s sweet, she’s kind, and she’s mine”—which strikes me as a little square. “Yesterday’s Rain”—the singer (Spanky?) sounds a little like Grace Slick—and the multiple backup vocal parts are inventive—I’m guessing it’s political (“rain”). As is, “Give a Damn”—and I like the sentiment—made easy to swallow with this soaring approach—which could be the best Pepsi ad ever conceived (Pepsi wishes). “Without Rhyme or Reason” is as smooth as can be, with its Brazilian stylings—and someone’s playing one of those wooden fish, which always cheers me up. “1-3-5-8” is one of those “row row row your boat” vocal goofs (I don’t remember the name of the form), but they really take it to an adult level (should be called “1-3-5-8-11”). “Jane”—another nice pop love song—and I’m guessing it’s about Jane. “Since You’ve Gone” starts out as the prettiest song on the record (my favorite stuff is when Spanky’s singing)—then has a weird bridge that sounds like people “literally” fighting. I don’t know if “you” left (they were fighting) or died (they were really fighting). Pretty and disturbing (an intriguing combination).

Spirit “Clear”

I’ve been intrigued with Spirit enough to buy a few of their early records—it also helped that I could find inexpensive copies—though they’re all beat to shit—but they still sound good! I haven’t written about any before now—though I did recently freak out over a Randy California solo record—and he’s in this band, as you know. I’m not going to read about them—just yet—I mean how the individual dudes melded to make a whole—who might be the leaders, and who might be jilted—too many guys—too many names—not enough time! This is pure sound I’m going on. I did glance at their discography—this is their third LP—I like that they’re on Ode Records, with the yellow school bus cheapo looking label. One thing fun about them is you don’t know what’s coming next—they mash together hippie blues, psychedelic pop, progressive rock, ballads, instrumentals, jams—lots of percussion, lots of guitar, various singers—though… the lyrics elude me at this point—the few I’ve made out sound like they were hard-earned. In pictures I’ve seen of them, including this album cover and back cover—the five of them look like a band—all quite hairy—except for one guy, excellent jazz drummer Ed Cassidy—who was actually Randy California’s stepfather—the “old guy” in the band. (Much older than Jack Casady (not related, different band), and even older than Jack Cassidy (father of David, Shaun—the musical Cassidys just keep coming), and even older than Neal Cassady, who probably died during the making of this record (also not related).) Ed Cassidy is as bald as a cue ball. Remember, back in 1969 bald guys weren’t a dime a dozen like they are now—virtually no one was bald but Yul Brynner, and the cast of Kung Fu (and even that was 1972).

Well… I really like this record, so I’m going to describe it the best I can while listening and being free with my observations. I’m not going to list songs (there are six to a side) because I feel like they are conforming to song structure somewhat against their most natural instincts (I may be, and am probably, wrong about this, but it’s what I’m hearing). So I’m going to pretend it’s a single musical piece, only restricted by the two sides of an LP. Why there are “bombs falling” sound effects (like Flipper’s “Sex Bomb”) during a song about a “dark eyed woman” I have no idea—maybe there are metaphors working in both directions—of course there are. Already, a percussion break—nice—tempo change in the next “song”—solid—but at this point we think we’re in for a whole record of hippie guitar blues, so I’m happy to report we’re now selling something—not sure what—happiness? And now… one of those sex songs disguised as a fairytale. And next… they’re moving off down the tunnel of death, until… someone had a little too much zappa with lunch. After running some errands, maybe a siesta… hitman from south of the border… movie score. What’s this, a harmony-rich psych-pop ballad? —you can fall either on the side of beautiful… or cornball. While I’m deciding, it’s back to drug-rock (songs with “Truckin’” in the title are 100% about drugs, 0% about the conveyance of goods). Less than brief interlude. Sleaze. Sly cartoon cat is up to something. Best for last… a compact (4:24) fervent mini-opera about futility.

Randy California “Kapt. Kopter and the (Fabulous) Twirly Birds”

For some odd reason I’m especially attracted to records by people named “Randy.” Maybe it’s because Randy is such a goofy name. It’s a name you should never give your kids, unless you want them to go into show business, fail, and suffer a broken heart. Anyway, this obsession has sometimes backfired, and I’ve bought some real clinkers over the years, but also some all-time gems, like Randy Lee’s Soakin’ with Tears. And there’s always Randy Newman. And I’ve always been fascinated with Randy California and the band, Spirit. I read on the unreliable internet that Randy California got his handle when he was in a band with Jimi Hendrix and another Randy, so Jimi named them Randy California and Randy Texas. (I’m glad I wasn’t in that band, or I’d be going around as Ray Indiana!) Anyway, I was thrilled to find this LP—the cover is great—it looks like it served for a time as a urinal splashguard—yet it still plays brilliantly. Before even touching needle to vinal, however, I started a review based on the gnarly cover photo and credits, which went something like this: “When you get this jambalaya of odors together—weed, whiskey, BO, menthol cigarettes, patchouli, and dirty hippie feet—which one dominates? That’s kind of a rhetorical quiz question, actually, but all I’ve got to say is, thank god for the patchouli! Is that a way for me to describe the absolutely filthy sound of this record? Well, all I’ve got to go on is the righteous sound, and the black and white photos on front and back—unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately)—no olfactory sensations.”

SO, I was wrong to be dismissive, but right about the filthy sound—you almost sense that you’re going to need to clean your stereo after playing it. Besides the gnarly rockstar photos, the song listings and credits are enough to scare away the most reckless bargain bin gambler. No less than two Lennon-McCartneys (one will sink most records) and a Paul Simon! And then… musicians named Henry Manchovitz, Cass Strange, and Clit McTorius! It’s “Danger Will Robinson.” But… I thought I should at least listen to it—and I’m glad I did, because it’s not only an awesome record, it’s become the soundtrack for my life. This is a record where I’ve got to go through song by song—because one gets the impression that they stumbled into the studio, pulled off side one, went out for a bucket of fried chicken and a few drinks, and then went back in for side two.

The first song is aptly called “Downer” and sounds like it never gets fully formed before it falls apart—which is, I mean, great—they sound like they have no respect for their instruments, and that’s cool. The record came out in 1972, which is when I had my first band, and we didn’t even have instruments. (We’d already broken my mom’s guitar, so we were stuck with an autoharp, piano, pots and pans.) We also had no helicopter, like, who I assume are the band members, seen approaching on the back cover—wait… that’s the same helicopter on the front, and they’re right under the blades—they should really be ducking down! And do they really not have cases for their guitars? Next song, “Devil,” is not doing it for me—not converting me to the Twirly Birds or Satan—way too much backwards guitar. Apparently, at some point, someone sang some Satanic messages and then played it backwards on a record to hide the message from all but the Satanists—and ever since, anything played backwards is like shorthand for “Satanic.” I get it. The next song, “I Don’t Want Nobody,” starts out sounding like the Edgar Winter Group, but then the singing starts (RC), sounding a lot like the James Brown song this has shortened the title from. It’s great—this is the one that hooked me—but weirdly, it sounds nothing like James Brown, and is now totally making me think of Fuzzhead—but it couldn’t be influenced by Fuzzhead—not without a time machine. At any rate, now I’m in. I’m into it. So much so, that by the time we get to the next song, “Day Tripper,” I’m open to the idea that it might not be a steaming turd. And it’s actually a lot of fun—it kind of sounds like a cover band at the grange hall who are actually really good—but perhaps helped and hindered by a variety of substances. Last, and the weirdest cover song choice, is Paul Simon’s reggae song from that year, “Mother and Child Reunion”—and sounds nothing like it—but apparently the song is about Chinese food, so maybe the band was ready for a lunch break.

Side Two kicks off with a cover of Sweathog’s excellent song, “Things Yet to Come,” along with some effects that sound like someone squirting some 409 spray cleaner all over the place—maybe it was, but why? Again, this one really reminds me of a Fuzzhead song—but still, no time machine. But then it occurs to me, maybe Fuzzhead was influenced by this very record—I mean literally the one I’m playing—it very well could have spent some time in a basement. After that epic, Alvin and the Chipmunks visit the studio (either that or someone’s having fun with helium). After which the band launches into some unlistenable audio-lame-joke-playing as an into to “Rain”—one of the more druggy Beatles songs (and one of my favorites)—and they kind of continue with the tradition here—drugs, drugs, more drugs, Satan, drugs, and so forth. Nice. After that epic, you figure it’s about time for another snack, but no, there’s another song, called “Rainbow”—the best original on the record—sounding a bit like Hendrix. I can’t make out the lyrics, but the chorus sounds like, “I need protection,” over and over. Think about it—he needs protection from a rainbow? What’s that all about?

Joe Wong “Nite Creatures”

Once in a while I feel like the best approach to an album is to put myself in the cinematic flow of the feelings I get as it takes me along—it’s usually a record I like, as I do this one. It works best when I get the sensation that I’m watching something—not necessarily a movie or anything narrative, but not abstract either. It’s often my most enjoyable version of a journey—neither weighed down by dramatic convention nor floating on an unhinged dreamscape—but something in-between—maybe a combination of memory and discovery. At any rate, it’s more fun than trying to isolate instruments or nail down influences. I can make out the lyrics, here, but there’s no lyric sheet included, which is sometimes good because the lazy approach is to isolate and analyze text. But first… this is a 2020 release—the Decca label looks like an old one, but the vinyl is heavy-duty, the way the kids like it. The cover is nice—a double exposure of either Joe Wong and Joe Wong, or Joe Wong and Crispin Glover (though, that would make no sense, but such is the nature of double exposures). Joe Wong and Mary Timony are credited with most of the sound—along with a few guest artists, and some orchestra. If I’m going to use one term for the music, I’d say psychedelic pop. Side 1 ends with a lock-groove. I wish Side 2 did, as well—in fact I wish all sides of all records ended in lock-grooves, seeing how I don’t have an automatic return turntable.

Okay, I guess I’m in Los Angeles, a town—whenever I visit—that I fall in and out of love with, within a week’s time—a microcosm of my relationships. It’s over. What a good place to start. I’ve reached absolute bottom, and now I’m walking. Well, that’s what one does in L.A.—not drive, that’s a myth—which is good because whenever I’m driving in a dream it’s all about not being able to hold a tight corner at high speeds. I’m walking along the boardwalk. Is there a boardwalk somewhere? Maybe I’m not in L.A. after all—never did make it to the beach. I come to a church, but it’s an old one, like a mission—not one of those new, drive-in ones. I either begin to pray or pretend to pray—I’m not sure—but then it occurs to me that it doesn’t make any difference. Did you ever dream in church? Did you ever kiss someone in a church? And why am I dressed in a cowboy costume? I was named after Randolph Scott, who looked comfortable in cowboy gear but miserable in a suit. I stop at a busy and hip pizza place, now, on a street populated with hustlers and insane dreamers—but I’m not eating—I’m taking in smells, perfumes, flowers, pizza—I can live on the wafting odors—which connect directly to the part of my brain that resides in heaven. Past midnight, now—adventure. I’m in a car, as a passenger—it’s an open convertible. We’re going somewhere—a surprise—there’s fear and anticipation. Then… the lock-groove of death.

The next morning, I’m walking along the beach. Finally made it to the beach! Something (could it merely be a good night’s sleep?) has made me feel invincible! I can do anything I want to do. Well, short of surfing—but I like watching the surfers—for once they’re not annoying, but beautiful. Well… I guess I’m performing my own version of riding the waves. Yeah, but it couldn’t last. Now I’m stranded in the haunted hills, and someone lent me some shitty sunglasses that allow me to see every single thing that happened here in the near and distant past. I’m a passenger once more, this time in an old VW bus, taking the hilly curves way too fast—though maybe we’re actually gliding just above the road. How’d I end up with these cats who are each dressed in a different satin rainbow color? Fortunately, they let me out at my girlfriend’s house (to be clear, this is a woman I’ve never met—yet she seems to know everything about me). She is absolutely everyone I’ve ever known condensed into a B-movie actress. As the sun is setting, now (in the east, for some weird psycho-geographic reason), I’m walking in slow-motion through lovely, old Union Station, lit, tonight, exclusively with candles. The huge, antique train is waiting for me, steaming and shaking, like a giant horse, and I pretty much am certain that once I get on it, all of this will be lost. Except for, you know—not the memories—but a single pearl—that they tell me… if you roll it ’round a roulette wheel it will never land. That’s all, folks! Thanks, Joe Wong, for the dreamy trip, and the trippy dreams. Keep ’em coming.

Jefferson Airplane “Crown of Creation”

Not having ever heard this album, I don’t think, I was alarmed when the first song transported me right back to my Renaissance Faire days, and besides that has goofy sound effects—though the typewriter is nice. After that, though, the record sounds like Jefferson Airplane, inasmuch as I have an idea of what the band sounds like in my relatively limited exposure to them (I never was a big fan, though I’ve always liked them. But I didn’t have any of their records, growing up). The album cover apparently did not register with me because I accidentally bought a copy when I already had one. It’s funny, they are both worn out in exactly the same way—looking like they were stuck tightly in the same Peaches crate since 1968. There’s a photo of the band huddled in the middle of what looks like a nuclear explosion, though for whatever reason, my brain registered the whole thing as a semi-abstract rendering of a giant chicken head. Also, funny, the photo of the band is altered (and there’s a larger version on back) so it looks like you’re seeing double (funny in light of me buying two of them).

It’s a good record, so I’d be happy to give my extra copy to someone—and I also plan on listening to mine, on occasion, which is, from me, a five-star review. I love their style and their sound—I kind of regret I didn’t buy all their records as a lad. An interesting thing occurred to me, during one particularly laid-back song, and it echoed a thought I had the other day while listening to some hippie folk blues rock (can’t remember what), and that was how I heard a spot that noticeably lagged a bit—that is, there was not that mechanical adherence to time that you hear with music that’s recorded on a digital grid, or however it’s done, now. A little messy, a little lazy, a little intoxicated—I don’t know, but 100% human and soulful. When I’m walking around, hearing music that’s enforced seemingly everywhere, I often find myself getting irritated—not because I recognize it or don’t (I don’t, usually)—why? Maybe it’s because it’s made by machines more than it’s made by humans, I don’t know. Anyway, it would be nice to hear a song from this record in the mall, someday (though maybe not “The House at Pooneil Corners”—unless you’re shopping for survival supplies). Actually, I’d love to hear that at the mall.

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.