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.

Julie London “Julie Is Her Name”

You could say the same thing about Christie, Andrews, the girl I had a crush on in third grade, my aunt and uncle’s poodle, and probably someone you know well—as well as this singer—it almost sounds like an introduction, doesn’t it? I guess she was acting for a decade before this LP, but it was a hit record—it begins with her biggest hit song “Cry Me a River”—you might remember her appearance, and that song, in The Girl Can’t Help It (1956)—a very weird scene. This is a low-key, smooth, mellow, make-out record—her voice is like vanilla yogurt (way better—I’m kind of sad I used that comparison—maybe expensive Scotch and menthols, I don’t know). She’s accompanied only by guitar (Barney Kessel) and bass (Ray Leatherwood)—and these are some fine versions of some of my favorite standards, including “I Should Care,” “I’m in the Mood for Love,” “I’m Glad There is You,” “It Never Entered My Mind,” “Easy Street,” “No Moon at All,” “Laura,” and more—thirteen songs, no bad ones. The striking cover is a chest up photo of her in front of a light-green background with just a tiny glimmer of a lowcut dress evident (they probably first tried to crop it so she could be imagined wearing nothing, but this was 1955). The liner notes are in a font smaller than my early ‘zines (everyone complained about eyestrain)—an enthusiastic bit by Bill Ballance, and then some real excess by screenwriter Richard Breen: “…there is a sweet impermanence about things; the marigold will lose its yellow; spring will not last forever; not all butterflies will stay genial.” Just that bit says a lot, and he’s really pushing it with the butterfly part.

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.

Frank Sinatra “The Voice”

I’m pretty sure my dad had this album in the form of a couple of seven-inch records in a cover that folded open, kind of like a mini EP, I guess. But am I remembering that correctly? Did that even exist? I tried to look online, for that format, and quickly gave up. Frank Sinatra released so many records, it’s kind of ridiculous. You can’t even really look at a Sinatra “discography”—well, you could, if you could find one you trust—but you might need an expert to help you interpret this and that. I’m sure they’re out there. The experts. There are experts for everything. And somewhere, an accurate and detailed Sinatra discography. But do I really care that much? At any rate, some version of this record played in the house where I was growing up—it could be among the first music I heard. This is a compilation on Columbia from 1955—so it’s all stuff that’s older, but I’m not sure when each song was recorded. Some sounds pretty early. There are a lot of really good songs, ones I’m primarily familiar with from Sinatra recordings, like: “I Don’t Know Why,” “These Foolish Things,” “She’s Funny That Way,” “Fools Rush In,” and more. There’s a nice version of “Laura.” It’s mostly slower stuff, ballads. He recorded some of these songs multiple times, in different styles, but always sounded like no one else.

The album cover, a good one, is a pretty old photo—he looks like a kid, hair a bit greasy, and his eyes look green, not blue—they match the billiard table green background. His shirt collar is all messed up and he’s wearing a really nerdy yellow sweater and the exact same jacket, I swear, as Vikki Carr, on one of her records. Well, not exactly, but it’s interesting that I thought about Vikki Carr. The uncredited liner notes are pretty good—they start out: “Next time anyone starts asking questions about what has happened to the snows of yesteryear…” The snows of yesteryear? Do people ask that question? Apparently… and this record is your answer. The previous owners have their name and address sticker on back, but I won’t publish that, or their phone number, or names. It’s one of those many suburbs north of Chicago—I looked on a map, and as is my habit, browsed the restaurants—it looks like you don’t have to go far for a decent matzo ball. Also, the price tag is still on front—$2.97—at Steinberg-Baum Co., apparently an old Illinois department store. That is about the right price for this record now, used—but that’s only because there were a lot of these out there, I’m sure. The value of the music coming through your speakers, however, is beyond any estimation, really—i.e. “priceless.”

Alec Templeton “Alec Templeton and his Music Boxes”

“If I were king, it would be a must that everybody have a hobby…” starts Alec Templeton’s intro, the first track of this record. And I agree, though I’d add, “but drinking and looking at pornography don’t count.” He then goes on to talk about his love for, and obsession with, collecting music boxes. I kind of like this thing of the first track being a spoken intro—kind of like an audio version of liner notes. Though you might get powerful tired of it if it’s a record you have “on repeat” (as the kids say). Though, maybe there is little danger of that here, as the remainder of this record consists of recordings of various music boxes—there are 45 tunes from 24 different ones, some of them quite grand, of course, and large, elaborate, ornate, and expensive. They all sound like music boxes. There are a few faded black and white photos of some of the boxes, but they don’t really do them justice. And some informative (written) liner notes that start out: “For the next 44 minutes, Mr. Templeton would like to take you away from the cares and tensions of today and transport you back to the gay, quiet era of not so long ago—the era of the music box…” There’s a signpost up ahead!

I could imagine (actually, I couldn’t) having a roommate who, this was his favorite record, and played it every day right after dinner. I’m afraid you’d have to kill him. I mean, this is an enjoyable record to listen to once or twice. I guess you could try to see how many tunes you can name. I have to say, that song, “A Bicycle Built for Two,” has just been forever altered for me after hearing HAL sing it while perishing in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). (Kubrick did that to a lot of music, actually—thanks, Stanley!) Talking about movies, if you are a filmmaker, this record might work really well into your resources—there could very likely be some scene in anyone’s movie where one of these music box songs is just the thing. The sound, the feeling of them, is far from neutral. I wonder why it is that we associate this music box music with some kind of ironic vision of the underlying tragedy inherent in our existence? Is it something leftover from past lives? Or just from other movies?

Gene Krupa “Gene Krupa”

I’d picked up a battered copy of this record and had it laying around for awhile (it’s got a great cover—and action photo profile of Gene Krupa playing drums, and a very modern layout)—I’m not really sure what I think about Gene Krupa one way or another, maybe thinking he was on the flashy side, or the show-biz side—you know—but this is Gene Krupa as bandleader, with his orchestra and a lot of really excellent musicians. And when I put it on, finally, I said, “Oh, no!” as it starts with a raucous, even jaunty bit—the trumpet is playing “Yankee Doodle”—but it’s a bit of a fake out, audience yelling, “No!” (I don’t know the motive, though!) And then they settle into a nice version of “After You’re Gone,” and then the second song, “Murder He Says,”—woman singer, who is that?! So I had to look, and it’s Anita O’Day—which reminded me of why, at one time, I called Anita O’Day my favorite singer—her singing has that quality on this song—I don’t know what it is—it’s: “that quality.” Then the band goes into a slow, atmospheric, instrumental version of “Tuxedo Junction.” It’s not until the end of the next number (that has a vocal by Irene Daye—pretty interesting that both Anita O’Day and Irene Daye sang with Gene Krupa) that G.K. gives us a little drum fireworks, but just a taste—then a little more on the next song, a very swinging, “Disc Jockey Jump,” and finally the song “Massachusetts” features Anita O’Day again—it’s a train song, but a good one, another great vocal. And so at this point, I’m thinking I actually hit a home run with this record—almost afraid to turn it over.

But I do, and it’s starts out with “Let Me Off Uptown,” with conversational vocals, back and forth, Anita O’Day and Roy Eldridge (who then goes into a trumpet solo, of course) great song! Then “Slow Down” another nice vocal by Anita O’Day, and same with the next one, “Boogie Blues”—“Don’t the moon look lonesome shining through the trees.” And then another one—this turns out to be the Anita O’Day album I don’t have (there’s a lot of them I don’t have, like all of them). And then, what’s like a really unexpected bonus, the song “Knock Me a Kiss” sung by Roy Eldridge, which I know, of course, from Louis Jordan, who I also don’t have any records by. (Anita O’Day and Louis Jordan—reminders to get out my cassette tapes.) Anyway, overall, this is a great record with a lot of surprises. It’s only later that I see the extensive, serious liner notes on back, which covers who played and sang one what, and the recording dates—which are a-while back. Sometimes you get a record that has great promise, and it turns out to be a real bummer, but other times, like this one, you get a record not really hoping much one way or another, and it turns out to be one of the better things, at least on that given day, in your mortal possession.