One of those Sinatra records that make me think that if Sinatra didn’t exist in real life, he would have been a great invention by a writer and/or an artist—or a team of them. A TV show, comic, movie, comic book, etc. The album cover is perfect—a naturalistic color illustration of Frank in as sharp suit, hat, casual tie, giant cufflinks—dressed for international air travel—and he’s taking the hand of woman—we only see her hand, but I’d guess she’s attractive. They’re on the tarmac of an airport—when you used to venture outside, and up the portable steps to the airplane. In the background we see a TWA plane, the “stewardess” exiting, and further back another plane—one of those big prop planes with three tail fins (the back of the cover tells me it’s the TWA Jetstream Super Constellation). No artist credit on back. The sky shows some clouds near the horizon, but most of it is the bluest blue imaginable. Twelve songs, all pop standards that could stretch into a traveling theme. I like all of them, and they fit together well—my favorites are: the title song, “Moonlight in Vermont,” “Autumn in New York,” “Let’s Get Away from it All,” “April in Paris” (with the intro), “Brazil,” “Blue Hawaii,” and “It’s Nice to Go Trav’ling.” (I’m gonna spell it that way from now on!) The art on the back cover uses some (apparently) actual airline charts and documents, over which there’s an artist’s rendition of some pilot paraphernalia, including a logbook, on which it says: “Pilot: Frank Sinatra” and “Co-Pilot: Billy May” (the bandleader). And there’s a compass, the pointy kind for measuring distances on the charts. There’s also a clipboard with a “Flight Log” that’s got some “handwritten” air-travel related notes about six of the tunes. On the bottom it says: “(over)”—but of course, we can’t turn it over—it’s just a drawing! I suppose you’re invited to write your own.
Posts Tagged ‘1958
Frank Sinatra “Come Fly with Me”
Ahmad Jamal “Sun Set”
The first song, “If Not for Me,” starts out particularly understated—you know the song, so when he doesn’t even finish one of the phrases, your mind finishes it, but it’s supremely pleasing in that it denies your expectations, as well as fulfills your expectations. Then there’s a part where a couple of notes are repeated to the extent that if it was a CD, you’d be certain it was skipping, even though this record came out in 1976, and CDs were still on the drawing board, right? (I don’t remember anymore.) Well… certainly when it was recorded, over a decade earlier. But it doesn’t sound like a record skip—so I guess back then, it would probably just evoke a kind of weird but interesting repetition. I know nothing about jazz, really—despite listening to years and years of Phil Schaap’s radio shows—but you don’t necessarily need to know much to enjoy it. Of course, the more you know, the better. It’s kind of funny how opposite I feel about live jazz recordings and live rock recordings. I avoid the rock ones—I can think of very few I like—too much energy with nowhere to go, not to mention inane patter (could drugs have been a factor?) But for jazz, live recordings make perfect sense.
This is a double record—a repackaging from “Chess Jazz Master Series.” It’s put together by a guy named Dan Nooger, who wrote the liner notes. It’s a release of a couple of records that were live recordings from 1958 and 1961—nearly 30 songs. The personal is the same: Ahmad Jamal, piano; Israel Crosby, bass; Vernel Fournier, drums. So… these are recordings of live shows from just before I was born and just after I was born. And for whatever reason, this is music that connects with me like I was listening to nothing but this all my life. I wonder who decided to call it “Sun Set”—rather than “Sunset” or “Chess Set”—interesting. The cover is a picture of, I suppose, a sunset (though, I might have thought moonrise) over some mountains. It’s funny—the picture is roughly the aspect ratio of a movie—but the cover opens up, and then the picture, a landscape, continues onto the back—and becomes the aspect ratio of a CinemaScope movie. I don’t know if that was intentional or not—but I’ll take it.
I don’t know that much about Ahmad Jamal, but I have a couple of his LPs—that I was able to find without mortgaging anything. No doubt I’ll pick up another one. The Big Board says he’s currently 92 years old—and he was born the same year as my dad, in roughly the same geographical area, with partly the same name (he changed his name to Ahmad Jamal in 1950, when he converted to Islam). He started playing piano at the age of 3, and by now has been releasing records for seven decades or so. I suppose by listening to this record enough times I know quite a lot about him (and his bass player and drummer). Hearing a good musician’s music is a direct connection to them—I guess that’s partly why we feel so strongly about music. And for some reason, piano, more than anything else, strikes me as a direct connection to the musician’s mind. Piano was the first instrument I tried to play—and I guess it was the first time I can recall experiencing significant failure. But that didn’t turn me against the instrument, or people who play piano. I might always consider it my one true love.
This is another one I must have dug out from the crawlspace, covered with cobwebs and mice turds—yet it plays beautifully, being an indestructible 45 RPM single. I should add, these little records aren’t necessarily indestructible if you hold it over a gas flame and mold it into an ashtray, as I’ve seen done. Which makes me think—when future civilizations explore the ruins of our world, they will no doubt be partial to the music that was recorded on this format, as it might be the only thing they can get a peep out of. Also, they are going to wonder what type of food we ate off of the billions of unearthed ashtrays. It’s the Glory label, which I don’t think I’ve seen before—a lovely shade of light green, and “Glory” in script letters right above the hole—which makes me think of “glory hole”—but I’m sure I’m the only one. Linda Laurie was a high school age singer who had a hit with this bizarre record. Well, the B-side, “Ooh, What a Lover” is a bit hard to take, as it’s Linda Laurie singing “sexy” variations on the title, accompanied by what sounds like a cheap guitar and a railroad spike—recorded in a cave. I’m probably making that sound pretty good—and there is also a brief verse—it sounds like a young man singing—notable because he rhymes “magic” and “tragic”—like that Luna song, “Lost in Space.” Any others?
“Ambrose (Part Five)” was the hit, however, and you can understand why—it’s odd enough to be intriguing, and it then starts to get better the more times you play it. I can imagine a kid, in 1958, driving the rest of their household crazy with endless repeat listenings. It starts out with a little jazzy piano, which then drops in volume while Linda Laurie does a dramatic monologue in a kind of exaggerated talky Brooklyn woman voice—she does it very well. She’s addressing “Ambrose”—saying it’s “very dark in here”—the cave from the first song? But then she mentions that the walls are vibrating, but before a fully supernatural development can take hold, she mentions they’re in a subway tunnel. It’s not strictly a monologue, because every so often, “Ambrose” deadpans, “Just keep walkin’” in a deep, gnarly voice (also performed by Linda Laurie—as I learned by watching her on “To Tell the Truth”). So now we picture them walking on and on in the dark, through a subway tunnel, and she just rambles on and on, relationship talk, “you can’t spend the rest of your life avoiding responsibility,” etc. Some of it mundane, some pretty funny and weird. It just goes on and on and on—you’d swear it’s the whole side of an LP, but no—it’s just two and a half minutes long. It’s an epic, though—and especially if you keep repeating it. You’d have to keep replacing the needle—at the beginning. Kids these days have it much easier.
John Ernst Café
This is a promotional record from 1958 (according to the internet) for John Ernst Café—it says: “Milwaukee’s Oldest Restaurant… John Ernst Café – Offers Old World Charm” – and the music consists of, on the first side (introduced by John Ernst), Irv and Chet on violin and organ bringing you a “medley of favorite European and American numbers” requested nightly at the café. Then on side two, Doris and Ernie Wicki (who don’t seem to have a Wikipedia page) on accordion, vocals, and bass violin – “our Swiss entertainers” with “Alpine musical treats.” The sound recording is nice (by Dave Kennedy) and you can imagine that you’re in the room there with the performers and people dining. There’s a couple of small photos of the entertainers on the back cover, sharing the spotlight with photos of what might be Weiner Schnitzel, Kassler Rippen, Sauerbraten, Cornish Game Hen, and Lobster. It’s signed to “Joe and Kate” (formerly custodians of this LP) “regards + best wishes, violinistically yours, Irv Brykczynski (I think—he ran out of space!) and Chester Vincent. On the cover, John Ernst welcomes you to the door (also, signed by him) and says “Welkommen.” There’s a nice picture of the café, on Ogden Street, at Jackson, which you will recognize as still being there, but now taken over as a Chipotle, a Panera Bread, and something else. Sad, but at least they didn’t tear it all down to build another of those lifeless, four floor apartment buildings. I was living in Milwaukee while John Ernst Café was still operating and I failed to dine there—one of my many, many regrets. At the point that they closed, my friends and I checked the dumpster each day as they cleaned the place out. It had to be the most magical dumpster of all time. For years, I displayed things like the decorative crows I found there. I have an old menu, but I’ll be damned if I can find it, now. I do have a typed out “Luncheon” menu from September 16, 1965, hanging on my wall. My kind of lunch—liver and onions for $1.75—as is “Koenigsburger Klops with Caper Sauce.” But if you want to splurge, South African Lobster Tail is $5—and “Mocha Torte” is 40 cents. Coffee is 15 cents, and you can get a Stein of imported beer for 75 cents!
This is an old, Verve, live recording of Ella Fitzgerald on a couple of occasions (Chicago and LA, 1957) with excellent bands. The first side sounds amazingly quiet and minimal, yet you can hear everything. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice is up front, and it sounds like she’s right on the room. Of course, she always sounds like she’s right in the room—some voices just have that quality. Some of my favorite songs, here—“It’s All Right with Me,” “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered” (always my favorite Ella song), “These Foolish Things,” and more. Also, “Baby Don’t Go Away Mad” (aka “Don’cha Go ‘Way Mad”) (written by Illinois Jacquet and Jimmy Mundy, with lyrics by Al Stillman)—a song I’ve mostly associated with Sinatra’s version, which I’m kind of obsessed with—and caused me to go on a Friday afternoon mini-rabbthole, which I won’t document here). There’s good liner notes by Norman Granz, in which he asserts the version of “Stompin’ at the Savoy” is the greatest vocal performance ever recorded. And, also the A-side recording is technically almost perfect. I won’t argue. What’s kind of amazing, if you think about it, is how this artifact, which cost me about half the price of a latte, is a year older than I am and works like it’s brand now, and brings to life, like holograms in my room, some magical performances by a few of the most amazing jazz artists of the last century—and can kind of transport you in time, in less than an hour, and bring you back unharmed. It can keep doing it, too, if you want, countless times—it’ll still be ticking along, long after I
I grew up thinking of Jackie Gleason as this corny guy on TV, until I saw The Hustler (1961), after which I could never forget that complex, melancholy Minnesota Fats character. I started noticing these “Jackie Gleason presents” mood music records in thrift stores a couple of decades back and realized they are actually really good. They also have some seriously insane titles (like, “Opiate D’Amour” and “Music to Change Her Mind”), and great covers (some would be worth buying for the cover alone), and there are a lot of them. I used to have a few. The cover of this one is a striking photograph of a young woman with flame-colored hair and a blue dress I can’t even begin to describe, reclining on a scratchy blue couch and satin blue pillow with a bundle of what one can only assume are love letters. I was immediately attracted to this record because (besides the cover photo) it’s a little odd, a UK pressing, with a very flimsy, glossy cover, and really heavy vinyl. There are four more songs than on the US version, I believe. I could play this record all day if I had turntable that kept repeating it. It’s got to be the most smooth and mellow record I have. It’s just really low key, but still has personality. There’s some really nice vibes on most songs, some muted horns, and just a nostalgic, romantic feel, overall. A lot of songs I know, some I don’t, but sound familiar. If I ever start dating again, I’ll be all set—all I need is a full bar, a round waterbed, and a love-light.
Offenbach “Gaîté Parisienne”
This is the same record that made its way into countless living rooms in 1958, onto the little built-in hifi record shelf, right? It’s this Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops version of Offenbach’s Gaîté Parisienne, put out by RCA records—the cover with the high kicking legs exposed in front of a shimmering red dress?—that one. If you’ve ever looked through the records at a thrift store, you’ve seen it. I guess this is the same record, put out by Camden (which is, I thought, the RCA cheapy label, but I don’t really know that for sure). Well, this is a far superior cover. This one is great. It’s the closeup of the head of presumably the same dancer, head back, eyes closed, mouth open. No doubt a similar yet different version of “sex sells.” For all I know, they have additional versions of this record with other seductively presented body parts. But anyway—I like this one—it’s actually pretty striking—you may not have another photo of woman’s face this large and clear among your entire belongings. Her teeth are so pronounced it just kind of makes you think about just how weird our teeth are. I might not listen to this again, on purpose, but I might keep it—if ever there was a record to keep for the cover and maybe hang like art.
My parents had this 1958 record and played it a lot, along with other George Shearing—but there may be no other music that sounds like my childhood than this particular record—George Shearing Quintet “with Brass Choir”—songs arranged by Billy May. I’ll always get a weird feeling from this particular, singular, George Shearing sound—a combination of nostalgia, comfort, and a little bit of sadness and even some queasiness. I mean it’s so present from my childhood, he almost seems like a distant uncle or something. Yet I know nothing about him, except that he was blind from birth and put out an insane amount of records. Once in awhile I’ll read something, then forget it—like I forget that he was English, born in London, and came to the US after the war. I’ve tried to figure out what that “Shearing Sound” is all about—it has something to do with how what he’s playing on the piano works with the vibes and guitar—but I don’t really understand it—it’s over my head—maybe some patient music person can explain it to me someday.
George Shearing was popular enough, sold enough records, that you can find beat-up copies for nothing, and I’ll pick them up when I see them, like this one. I’ve hardly ever paid any attention to the front cover, which is a woman in a sparkly red dress lying on some golden satin sheets—she’s looking up seductively while exposing the full length of one of her long legs. On the bed with her is a trumpet, a trombone, and a French horn. I wonder if this record was subliminally responsible for me attempting the cornet as my first instrument—though I totally failed to get anywhere with it. I should have taken up the French horn—is there a cooler instrument out there, when you really think about it? I loved the picture of Shearing on the back cover so much I put it on the cover of one of my zines (an early issue of The Sweet Ride, from the Eighties). I never thought too much about the individual songs on this record—they all just kind of melt into each other with ultimate smoothness—but this is probably the first place I heard the standard, “Memories of You”—and I’ve always really loved that song. The rest of the songs, except for “Cheek to Cheek,” I couldn’t name, off-hand, but they are all so familiar, it’s like they’re DNA—the song “Burnished Brass,” for instance, with this smooth horn part that drops in and out with the piano—it could be the main theme for the documentary on my life. Yet, listening now, I feel like I might have gotten annoyed by this record, then dismissed it entirely. Now, it almost holographically recreates the space I grew up in so vividly that it’s somewhat overwhelming.
Kay Starr (no relation to Ringo—he was a Starkey and she was a Starks) was, according to Internet, born in Oklahoma, part Native American, and used to serenade the family’s chickens in their coops, which led to recording some 200 plus records, mostly in the Fifties and Sixties, but spanning half a century. I was familiar with her, have a song here and there on cassette, but I never heard these two songs on this 1958 single, which was in my box of random 45s. It’s in that category of early rock’n’roll, I guess, when pop orchestras were trying to cash in—at least that’s my impression—with shrill horns (“Rockin’ Chair”) and kind of bizarre electric guitar (“Stroll Me”) and hip lyrics about the radio, dancing, the sock hop, etc. “Rockin’ Chair” is about “Gramps” not being a square, diggin’ the new music, and is hopelessly corny. Though there could be hidden meaning—I mean, there has to be right? But I can’t listen again. “Stroll Me” is more interesting because of the guitar, and the weird way it sounds like someone keeps manually slowing down the record. Also, it’s supposedly about a dance, but everyone knows it’s about fucking. In a way, I can’t figure out if I’d rather hear people use these really obvious metaphors or just come out and say it straight—I guess there’s good and bad either way, right? The other interesting thing is that the orchestra is Hugo Winterhalter’s, who was probably quite prominent, but who I’ve never made a note of until now. I love that name, Winterhalter—I’ve never heard that one before—and I bet it’s especially poignant to people on a day like this when the temperature is going to drop 30 degrees and the wind is going to make everyone act like they’re back in the days of hopelessly insufficient overcoats.
“The Answer to a Pub with No Beer” is a fairly simple song, minimal acoustic guitar, and this guy’s crystal clear, piercing voice that could cut through an iceberg like a laser knife, or iceberg lettuce like a Ginsu knife, or London fog like a wailing banshee or a fog cutter cocktail (gin, rum, cognac, orgeat, lemon juice, orange juice, amontillado), just verse after verse after verse until the story is over. I’m going to have to listen again and pay attention to the words, much to the pleasure of my neighbors, since his voice cuts through plaster and drywall like a Sawzall. I can’t place his voice, actually; he sounds a little hillbilly and a little Oxford educated. The other side, “Winter Winds,” is a celebration of winter, when, you know, out on the range, and in this one he does a little yodeling, which is not my favorite use of the vocal chords, but it is pretty impressive and otherworldly, sounding like some kind of banshee. I shouldn’t have used the word “banshee” earlier, now I feel like I can’t use it here. Oh well, I guess that’s why they invented editing. Back to the first song, a story song, about the pub with no beer—I’m trying to concentrate on the story, and it sounds like plain English, but I can’t figure out what in the hell he’s talking about. I could listen to it over and over, and try to write out the lyrics, and start the department of Slim Dusty studies, but I’m not going to, and instead will resort to the dreaded internet to see if I can find out anything about this singer.
So it turns out that Slim Dusty is Australian and was a huge star there and this was a number one record, so now I feel like a dumb-ass. I tried reading the lyrics, but still can’t figure it out—or just don’t want to take the time—maybe it’s just sour grapes that I can’t drink beer—though I was known to consume a few of those Australian oil cans of beer, whatever those were called, in my time. I’m reading the lyrics, and they are kind of insane—I mean, there’s a driver, and a drover, and a blitz wagon—really great stuff, actually. I like this song a lot—I was trying to think who it reminded me of, and Red Foley crossed my mind—not that I have a lot of Red Foley records—a couple on cassette, but they’re really good. I guess this particular 45 I have is a New Zealand pressing—it’s a green Columbia label—it looks really ancient, but it’s just 1958—though that is kind of ancient, I guess. My favorite thing of all is the full artist name on the record: Slim Dusty “The Dusty Trail Yodeler” And His Bushlanders. That’s just excellent.
DJ Farraginous 
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