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.
Posts Tagged ‘1959
A couple of typical rock’n’roll songs from 1959 from teen idol Bobby Rydell—this was a hit record. They pack a lot into each song, backing vocals, honking sax, barroom piano, and a lot of words. It’s crazy to think about someone having to get up (or stop dancing) in order to turn over or change the record after two minutes and fifteen seconds, but that’s how they used to do it. Bobby Rydell only recently passed away, and it sounds like he kept preforming, as his health would permit, for his lifelong fans. I’ve always known his name but wasn’t a big fan—I missed him by a generation or two—though this could have been a single my parents had. I love the Cameo label—it looks hand drawn—it probably was—plus, it reminds me of my favorite pizza joint (The Cameo), growing up. “We Got Love” is one of those songs that lists a lot of numbers (“five o’clock I call you and by six we got a date”)—clever and corny—but eight children? That’s commitment, I guess. “I Dig Girls” similarly lists stuff—a few body types (he digs ’em all) and then goes into geography—chicks from Tennessee, New York, Chicago, Tallahassee… even Sioux City. And then some specific names (including “you”), and then more types—not real particular. He doesn’t care if she’s a “dream lover” or a “nightmare”—that’s commitment.
Lionel Hampton “Golden Vibes”
A year (1959) before Lionel Hampton’s “Silver Vibes,” came this one, subtitled: “with reeds and rhythm.” What I said (in my earlier review) about the Silver Vibes album cover also applies here (though this one is much better, overall). As usual, I can listen to Lionel Hampton records all night long, and as I’ve said before, the jazz vibraphone is perhaps my earliest memory of music—from my dad’s collection—probably meant to quiet me in my crib. And here I sit six decades later, still listening to Hamp in my “crib”—though, since having replaced the formula bottle with the bourbon bottle, and since, the sparkling water. Oh, well, the music makes me happy to simply be alive. This record features a song I’m most obsessed with (“Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”) and one of my favorite jazz compositions (’Round Midnight”) as well as standards I recognize, some I don’t, and some Hampton compositions with names like “Vibraholidy.”
It starts off with “My Prayer”—which immediately beams you into a smoky, dim cocktail lounge, candlelit through red glass, with mysterious figures deep in the shadows. I don’t know about you, but I’m drinking a Rusty Nail. It occurs to me now, that’s an awful name for any drink—and particularly that one. Should I start drinking again, I’m going to rename it “Lauren Bacall”—though, there probably is one. Cocktails are like band names. If there isn’t a cocktail called “But Beautiful”—there should be—and this version, here. Okay. (Not) in keeping with the Olympic medals model, I’ve got to say, as good as this record is, I do like Silver Vibes better—but that’s a unique and exceptional recording. That’s the one with trombones on all the tracks—if I remember correctly. A pretty stunning record. I don’t think he did a “Bronze Vibes”—that would be too weird… maybe I’m wrong. So many records—I’m not even going to check them all. He was active over the large part of the 20th Century—a pretty amazing dude.
The liner notes, by Irving Townsend, cover the back cover—worth reading, too—gives you the sense of where Lionel Hampton was as popular recording artist when this record came out (the year before I was born). For an odd minute, while listening to the record and reading the back cover, then looking at the generic yet classy album cover, I got this strong feeling of what it might have been like back then, at the time this record came out—the feeling you’d get going to your local record store and buying this album brand new. You’ve already heard a few Lionel Hampton records, of course, or maybe you have several, like my dad did, and then you get this one, and it’s all new to you. Really exciting. When was the last time I went out and bought a contemporary record new, and had that sensation? Well, a few years ago I did, but had to get it mail-order—and it felt different than going to the record store and picking out the record, based on experiences, but also curiosity. I wish I could talk to my dad right now about buying all the jazz records that he had—how he knew about them, where he got the records, which ones first, and how he felt hearing a new one.
I admit that I didn’t know it was The Champs who wrote and recorded the song “Tequila” (released in 1958)—the only song you’ve heard more than “Happy Birthday” and “Hotel California” combined. It’s a fun song, but I’m sorry, it’s not as fun as drinking Tequila. If there was ever a song that had been covered and used in TV, movies, and during happy hour TOO MUCH, it would be “Tequila”—but I doubt if The Champs foresaw this in 1959 when they put out “Too Much Tequila.” Well, maybe they did—they’re pop/tequila geniuses, after all. I’m sure you’ve heard this one, too, I’ll bet, as well, as I sure have—I just didn’t know the name. I admit that when I found this record in the “last chance” bin, I was hoping this would be a twisted hillbilly saga of excess and woe—but no dice. I mean, it’s a great song—I like it better than “Tequila”—and there isn’t much I like better than Tequila. The B-Side, “Twenty Thousand Leagues,” however, takes it to another level—it’s a weird one. It starts out with some burbling, gurgling, bubbling water, then a repetitive groove with a ridiculously extreme reverb-heavy guitar playing a psychedelic surf riff—nice. But the best part, there’s a barely recognizable sax, punctuating, blowing more air than notes—so it sounds like oxygen escaping a deep-sea diving suit. It borders on creepy—but is ultimately just pretty funny. I’m sure this song must have been used to great effect in some Lynch/Tarantino/whoever movie somewhere, but I’m not going to impinge upon my evening digging up that info—let me know in the comments.
I went the first sixty-some years of my life thinking “The Way I Walk” was an Elvis Presley song—and so jarring is the realization that it’s actually “Jack Scott”—it’s caused me to doubt the existence of “The King” at all. Maybe “Elvis” is a vast conspiracy, kind of a cultural hologram—as massive, worldwide illusion—but to what end? I can’t imagine, but anyway, this possibility certainly changes things. But does it, really? Amway, Jack Scott, a Canadian, wrote and recorded “The Way I Walk”—backed up by Canadian group The Chantones. How did he get a name like Jack Scott? He changed it from Giovanni Domenico Scafone, Jr. How did he make such an “American” “hillbilly” record? He was from Windsor, Ontario, which is essentially Detroit. Anyway, it’s certainly a rock’n’roll classic—never my favorite, but it’s undeniable. It also has the distinction of a couple of outrageous cover versions—one, by The Cramps, in which they slow it down to the point of sounding psychotic—and make it into a Cramps song. The other, by Robert Gordon, is closer to the Jack Scott version, but it’s especially astounding because of the guitar by Link Wray. Taking nothing away from Jack Scott’s, which is fine. The B-side is a song called “Midgie”—in which he has the challenge of rhyming with that particular woman’s name. He does it with “silly.” Why not, I guess—you try it. Widgie? Fidgie? Jack Scott was born the same year as my mom, and this record is from 1959, the year I was conceived (apparently). Coincidence? I don’t think so, but then my dad’s name is Jack, and my middle name is Scott, for no good reason. I’ve had this 45 kicking around for years without paying it much mind—it’s on the subtly cool-looking Carlton label.
This song takes me back, wa-ay back to a time before I was born (only slightly). According to the internet this single is from 1959, and it was written and sung by Tony Bellus, from Chicago, who is now 85, if he’s still with us. At the time of this recording he would have been only 23, so that to be robbin’ the cradle he’d have to be dating someone, what—13? He sings, “They say I’m robbin’ the cradle—they think it’s strange for true love to be so young.” I guess “they” is society, who thinks he’s out of line. Or maybe at 23, people say you’re robbin’ the cradle if you go out with someone who’s 18—only five years younger. Of course, the older you get, the wider the “acceptable” gap gets. Who’s making these rules, anyway—the same “society” that came up with this weird expression, “robbin’ the cradle?” Which is, if you think about it, very disturbing in that it’s a euphemism, essentially—but taken literally, would mean “stealing a baby.” And there’s no good way to spin stealing a baby—I don’t need to elaborate. The B-Side, “Valentine Girl.” is a bit easier to swallow—about that time once a year when candy hearts appear, and then disappear (when you eat them, presumably). “Be my Valentine girl”—innocent enough, except for the phrase: “I give my heart once a year”—which means, what, that it grows back? Will it regenerate, if removed? I know I’m taking that too literally—but there’s a reason for that—3/4 way through this short song, there’s a totally odd key shift that has the effect of making you question everything you’ve just heard—it kind of takes it out of pop innocence and puts it in the realm of “twilight zone.” Nice record—my copy looks like arrived by high winds, with attendant debris—scratchy as hell—and it sounds great.
This is another good one, from 1959, by the George Shearing Quintet, plus, or including the conga playing of Armando Peraza. As usual, a mixture of Latin numbers and standards, all falling together well. What’s amazing is that it manages to be both laidback and uptempo at the same time. I have to say, George Shearing music is one of the only places I can not only tolerate, but enjoy, music that might be considered “jaunty.” An exceptionally nice album cover, too—a woman with a rose in a nearly abstract composition. Could I call this one of my favorites? Probably, but only because it starts with one of my favorite versions of “All or Nothing at All” and then just gets better. But it’s hard to compare to the other Shearing records I have; I’d have to hear them all back-to-back… which isn’t a bad idea. What I want to do, as soon as I make some money, is have a big place, apartment or house, with a lot of space. Maybe a sunken living room—which is where I’ll have my Hi-Fi and records. Plenty of room for the records, of course, so eventually I’ll buy every George Shearing album—nearly 100 of them—and that’s all I’ll play for a while—until I’m intimate with them, and able to tell you what songs are where, etc. Then I’ll do a ranking of all of them, from best to not quite as good—and I’ll publish that somewhere. I suspect they’ll be hard to rank—there might be some ties, even—and I also suspect I’d be tempted to set up a bar in one corner of the sunken living room—maybe even designate a separate cocktail for each of the over 100 or so records. I don’t think I’ll actually start drinking again, though—it sounds too tiring—even though this might be the ultimate cocktail music. It’s a lot of dreaming, but still, I might be able to find and buy all the records, eventually, and I might even pull off the sunken living room.
Matt Dennis “Welcome Matt”
I kind of expected the worst from this record, pop music corny-ness, and it is pretty friendly, but also, it kind of strikes me as odd, how it’s recorded—Matt Dennis’ smooth, crystal clear voice is recorded so loud relative to the orchestra—he sounds more like he’s in the room here with me than if he was in the room here with me. Maybe that’s how pop vocalists were recorded in 1959, and I’ve just listened to so much Sinatra everything else sounds kind of crude in comparison. I’m not sure, though, as I don’t listen to a lot of comparable stuff. Maybe this reminds me a little of someone like Mel Tormé? Anyway, good songs, some standards like “You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To” and “Cheek to Cheek,” and there’s a particularly nice song called “Home” that I’m not sure I’ve heard by anyone else. Then there’s “Welcome Mat” by the man himself—it’s a little goofy. The version of “My Blue Heaven” sounds really weird to me—like he’s flattening the end of each line—maybe that’s a style. Maybe that’s how the song was written. I don’t know know—I wish I knew more—I’ve got more questions than answers about this one. But I like it. My favorite, though, is “A Cup of Coffee a Sandwich and You”—a song I’ve never heard before, and probably for good reason—it’s insane. I mean, a sandwich? I guess the idea is, the simple things in life are good enough for him—but then where does that put “you?”
The cover particularly cracks me up—it’s a photo, taken in an actual apartment, of Matt Dennis in formal wear entering, carrying a welcome mat on which “Welcome Matt Dennis” is crudely rendered. There’s a woman standing there (who presumably put out the mat) who looks either annoyed or overwhelmed by the Matt Dennis sex appeal. Her long dress is an odd design of brown and gray plaid—it’s a really weird print for a dress—I have no words for it, I’m no expert. It looks like some kind of curtains or a tablecloth, to me, more than a dress, but what do I know? She’s wearing more pearls than can possibly be healthy—which are kind of overwhelmed by the plastic doorbell, peephole, and three brass doorknobs also visible in the photo. I mean, there was absolutely no art direction involved at all here (other than that cheesy “Welcome Matt”)—which, when I think about it—makes it actually more interesting than if a lot of care was taken to make it look not weird. I miss these times, from the past, when things didn’t have to get worked over and homogenized by a team of boring, frightened, accountants. When a doorstop was a doorstop, and “I love you” meant… Okay, maybe I should just stick to talking about the cover art, here.
I feel like I had another record by them awhile back, and I feel like I wrote about it, but I can’t find it. I picked up this one fairly recently—a little against my better judgment because it’s a “best of” record—and the cover (a stylized silhouette drawing of three howling cats) made me think this was released like, yesterday. Also because it’s a very clean copy. It’s also on that most common of all labels, the red Columbia one. So I was kind of shocked to see the record came out in 1974—that’s 45 years ago! Oh, now looking at the small print… this record was previously released as their record, “The Hottest New Group in Jazz” in 1959—so it’s essentially a re-release. So, as an object, it’s brand new—that is, if 1974 was now, but, well, the music… that makes more sense to me… it sounds like 1959.
The music on this is all good, I like every song, and I can listen to this at every meal. Lambert, Hendricks & Ross are—well, you know—a vocal group consisting of Dave Lambert, Jon Hendricks, and Annie Ross. (I’m not sure if they considered calling themselves: Annie, Jon & Dave.) I first heard one of the songs from this record, Annie Ross’ song, “Twisted,” when Woody Allen used it as the title song in his movie, Deconstructing Harry (1997)—along with jump cuts of Judy Davis in a murderous rage. It’s the best opening of any of his movies (well, except for maybe Manhattan). Though the very first place I ever saw her was acting, playing a singer in Robert Altman’s Short Cuts (1993). I believe you can find some old footage of her, maybe on YouTube (I’ll look), yeah, on some kind of old TV show that is made to look like a casual party, where you know, Count Basie happens to be playing and people (Annie Ross, then Lambert and Hendricks and Joe Williams) break out into some jazz singing. I’ve already said something else is the “best thing on the internet”—but really, this may be. It’s great. And this album’s not bad, either—like I said, all the songs here are good—they’re fun, and all pretty unique while fitting together like anything. My favorites here being Cloudburst, Twisted, and, really, just all of them. And Summertime (some day I will make a mix tape of all the versions I can find, and this is a particularly killer one).
I just noticed that there are some extensive liner notes on the back cover, written by Jon Hendricks, which I failed to read before, so I will now—written for this re-release in 1974 (he mentions Watergate)—really good liner notes, kind of a poetically conveyed history of the band, ending with his poem (“the shortest jazz poem ever heard.”) “Listen.” I’m going to steal that. That’s perfection, poetry-wise. But where do you go from there? I guess imperfection, which is also beautiful, and contained in all my favorite stuff. As part of his brief history of each of them, and them getting together, he tells us that he’s from Toledo, Ohio (interesting to me since I’m from non-literally a stone’s-throw from there), home of Art Tatum, among others, and also the expression “Holy Toledo”—which he says: “derives from the fact that there are only two bad weeks in show business: Holy Week and a week in Toledo. And if you happen to be booked in Toledo during Holy Week, well—’Holy Toledo!’”
I was listening to the radio early this morning before work, WKCR, via the internet, and someone was playing a long set of Nina Simone songs. They don’t do a lot of talking that early. Then after work, half of a perfectly good ruined day later, back home, I turned on the same station (Thursday early evening is always good for jazz)—and in just one note—vocally, I mean—not even a syllable—I could tell it was Nina Simone again. She has such a recognizable, singular sound and style. So then I realized that today is her birthday, so they were playing pretty much all Nina Simone today. I don’t have any albums by her, at this time, unfortunately, but I remembered seeing this 45 in my random, found, 45 stack, so I used my random record selection system and willed it to fall on this one. “I Loves You, Porgy” is a Gershwin standard, and this is a really beautiful, quiet version, really nice. There were no doubt a lot of these 45s pressed, though it was very early in her recording career, I think, and I guess it was up there on the charts. It came out the year before I was born. Maybe I heard this on the radio, very young. This is my favorite music, stuff like this, and pretty much has been my whole life (besides brief forays, you know, into this and that). I wonder if music you hear before you were born, or your first year of life, sticks with you? “Love Me or Leave Me” is considerably more upbeat, and a good song, too—I know if from somewhere. Well, interesting Thursday night—I’m gonna go back to the radio for awhile, more Nina Simone. If the radio was always this good I’d never get around to listening to records.
DJ Farraginous 
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