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.
Posts Tagged ‘1956
Terry Gibbs “Vibes on Velvet”
Somehow this 45 is with my records, even though I don’t recall acquiring it—but that’s nothing new. It’s looks like it got tossed over the fence and back, but the bold red and yellow Verve label hasn’t faded, and it plays great (that’s 33 1/3 RPM for you) and it takes me right back to 1956, four years before I was born. I have little recollection of Jane Powell, though she was in a bunch of movies and shows, on the radio, and made a few records. Her singing is a showtune style—I guess it sounds like times past, now—and I like it very much. Orchestra conducted by Buddy Bregman, and these are a couple of Cole Porter songs. Very romantic—I would say outright sexual, except that we know “making love” doesn’t mean sex necessarily, but rather, “making love.” And “true love” is only in the mind. To put things in perspective, Jane Powell was born a year before my dad, she passed away just last year, and they put in her Hollywood sidewalk star the year I was born. There are some nice pictures of her on her Wikipedia page—one with a cat, and one with Liz Taylor, sharing an ice cream sundae, form the 1948 movie “A Date with Judy.” That got my attention because, on my “read soon” stack, there’s a book called “A Sundae with Judy” from 1949. I assumed that the two must be related, but the authors don’t match up. Perhaps there’s more to this connection—but then, I guess it’s not that important to get all investigative about. After all, my primary interest is the ice cream, ala vicariously, since I can’t eat ice cream anymore. Sad but true.
Gordon Jenkins “Manhattan Tower”
If you haven’t seen this record in a thrift store by now, you haven’t been looking hard enough. I suppose that indicates they pressed a lot, it’s not collectable, and it’s possibly too corny to listen to more than once. Not that it’s not a lot of fun. The work of composer and arranger Gordon Jenkins, it’s kind of a mini Broadway show, with orchestra, spoken word, and songs—all compressed into the groves of a long-playing LP. There are enough versions of this record to make your head spin. Someone out there has probably tracked its history, and to that fan, you might stop reading this now—I’m not going to add anything enlightening here. It actually has a history going back to the Forties, and then this new version came out in 1956. I don’t know… according to the liner notes, this is a greatly expanded version of the original. (Expanded to reflect the insane optimism of the early-Fifties?) To give you an example, there’s a song called “Happiness Cocktail,” and it’s not ironic (unless I’m missing something—and I’m always missing something—but probably not this time).
The overall theme, of course, is New York City. It’s the kind of work that one is tempted to call a “love letter” to The City—meaning, of course, an advertisement for the city. The other major theme, of course, is heterosexual wealthy person love—meaning a horny guy landing a beautiful woman like an exhausted mackerel. I’m sorry if I sound cynical—I’m sure this kind of thing makes me vomit a lot less than most people—I can enjoy it—or least to a point. Okay— but it just keeps going and going. It’s only the end of Side A and “Steven” is wailing “Never leave me, never leave me!” My advice would be: for the love of God, stop wailing, “Never leave me.” I’m going to have to save Side B for a rainy day. It’s now a week later, and that rainy day is today. More of the same—though I swear I heard someone moaning about the humidity. Maybe that was me. Then, more: “Please don’t leave me!” Did it ever occur to these people that the whole problem is people wanting to “own” things—from women to skyscrapers? The internet tells me yet another version came out in 2007—no doubt on CD—so it’s even longer. By that time, of course, Manhattan towers have come and gone, but the one thing you can count on is some slob wailing, “Never leave me…”
Some day I will count the number of George Shearing records with “Latin” in the title—I have several, myself, and they are all excellent. I’ve never really heard a bad George Shearing record, though there must be one out there, right? He’s human, after all. Though I don’t think that’s what Kerouac labeled him. I may have mentioned a hundred times that the music I grew up hearing more than any other was George Shearing—whatever of his records my parents had—and they had a bunch. I heard more Shearing than Sinatra, even, more than Burt Bacharach, more than The Archies and Tommy Roe (those last two were mine). My earliest memory—if it’s not being intoxicated by one of my aunts’ perfumes, or a James Bond movie, or the neighbor’s dog running off with my stuffed animal chipmunk—would be my mother vacuuming while playing a Shearing record from the late Fifties.
I haven’t heard a lot of his later stuff, but the records I have sound much like this one, with the “Shearing Sound,” incorporating vibes and and guitar—and this one, of course, with Latin rhythms, a lot of percussion—“maracas, timbale, claves, conga drums,” says the liner notes. It opens with the familiar “Perfidia,” then Mambo with Me”—twelve songs, all of them great. There’s even a Shearing composition called “Poodle Mambo”—one wonders. This record sounds so familiar and hits me with such sweet nostalgia, I’m thinking it might have been one in my parents’ collection. Actually, this could be the very record, who knows—I haven’t exactly kept track of where my records come from. As usual, there’s a great album cover with a beautiful woman—she’s grabbing her hair, which doesn’t seem weird until you think about it—then in the background, through a haze of red-violet, there’s a couple embracing in an exotic nightclub. The liner notes suggest “the darkest corner of a smoky bar,” and promise the music will “lure even the shyest dancer to the floor.” And, also “thoroughly delight the listener who does not choose to dance.” I guess that would be me.
This is a totally pop-culture reference, and a dated one at that, but there’s a part of the first number here that reminds me totally of the title song of the Jonny Quest TV show from the 1960s. I guess it’s just this particular horn part, maybe a trumpet. If you watch that show now, whether you remember it or not, with the sound off, you might be shocked at how primitive the animation is. I mean, the art is good, but it’s just pretty clunky and not overly sophisticated. I don’t remember it like that at all, I think, because the sound is very sophisticated, and the score is amazing. Sound and music create a much more complete picture than image does. This record reminds me of records my dad had—he had some Stan Kenton, I think, but not this one—this is a lot more intense than what my parents normally listened to. It’s got a kind of insane album cover, all orange and black, like a highly stylized illustration of a conga player, possibly on the edge of a volcano, or Hell. On the back there’s about an hour’s worth of liner note reading (including detailed notes for each song). There are a lot of liner notes, actually—I’m going to put this on a “do on a rainy day” list—to read these liner notes—I’ve seen shorter novels.
I think this is one of those records where the best way to approach it is to go song by song (there are only six), and because each one feels like a mini-drama, describe what each song makes me visualize, or think of, or feel. The titles are in both Spanish and English, but I’m just including the Spanish (which is Greek, to me), so as not to be narratively influenced. Fuego Cubano – A guy in a white suit drinking rum and cokes at a bar, in Cuba, naturally, just kind of not sweating somehow and calmly waiting to be detained by the authorities. El Congo Valiente – A well-dressed European couple, a very shallow looking man and a beautiful woman, are dashing from airport to airport, carrying their undersized valises, trying not to miss their planes (in each airport). Recuerdos – The guy in the white suit again, but this time suavely being escorted into the bank lockbox area where he fills his valise with some unrecognizable currency, then leaves unmolested, except at the end we are made aware that this is just a flashback. Quien Sabe – Now our hero is piloting some kind of super fast and also totally silent aircraft, flying very low, passing over small islands dotting an impossibly blue sea. The mood is optimistic. Le Guera Baila – This is the couple from earlier, but this is back in time because they don’t know each other—she is at the bar and he comes in and introduces himself, orders them both a rum and coke (he drinks them both) and then she leaves. La Suerte de los Tontos – The man and the woman are making their getaway in an elaborate chase scene, first riding in the back of produce truck, then stealing a motorcycle. As both they and the authorities (in small cars) approach the dock, and the waiting yacht, there is a freeze frame, suggesting an ambiguous ending, or maybe indicating that this entire escape is all in the guy’s mind, and he’s probably dead or in prison. FIN.
Audiophile “Echoes of the Storm”
This 33 1/3 RPM long playing 12 inch record is a collection of high fidelity recordings of various oddities, pressed into beautiful, translucent, ruby-red vinyl grooves, as heavy as the records the kids are making these days, though this came out in 1956. I’m considering “Audiophile” to be both the artist and the label (from Saukville, Wisconsin!), and “Echoes of the Storm” the title, though that recording comprises Side A of this disc—Side B is titled: “Crazy Quilt” and consists of several tracks: Rotary Saw, Hammer Driving Nails, Water Dripping into Bucket,” “Drums,” and “Music Box.” The last two tracks are undeniably “music”—though I’ll wager they didn’t crack the Billboard charts—and I find the Rotary Saw track not unlike being subjected to the sound of a rotary saw. In fact, if ever I put this side on again, on purpose, it would be justifiable for friends to express concern. Side A, however, is another matter. I love thunderstorms, and this sounds exactly like a thunderstorm, and it’s framed by birds and frogs, and a train rolls through somewhere around the halfway point! There are some pretty good liner notes about serious techie audiophiliac issues, but also composed with a lot of dry humor. It also reveals that the storm was recorded in Milwaukee in June, 1952—and I find it kind of thrilling to know that. The cover looks pretty homemade and it is beautiful. It includes an 8 x 8 inch, what looks like a woodcut, rendering of a storm, with racing clouds, a bent tree, and some really frightening, hairy lightning—all in silver and blue on black. I found myself staring at it while listening to the storm track, and I have to say, I’ll take this over drugs any day. I got a real evening’s entertainment out of the dollar or so this record cost me.
DJ Farraginous 
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