Skeeter Davis “Singin’ in the Summer Sun”

I’m glad that my magic eightball planchette thingy landed its arrow on this 1966 record for review in the summer—it would have felt weird in the dead of winter—for obvious reasons. The album cover is a nice painting of a blond woman at the beach—obviously supposed to be Skeeter Davis, though it doesn’t look like any picture I’ve seen of her—but that’s okay, I guess. She’s in the foreground and, oddly, in the background the sky is mauve! And there is just the slightest glimpse of water, as if we’re looking over a big dune. The funniest thing is there’s a group of four young people, and one is a guy sitting in a chair with an acoustic guitar and a shirt with red and white vertical stripes like he’s one of the Beach Boys. Maybe he is. The usual 12 songs, and seven contain the word summer, two have the word sand, one boardwalk, one lifeguard, and one sunglasses. You’ve heard a lot of these, of course, by other artists, but Skeeter Davis has a way of improving on even the most over-recorded tunes. (I honestly think she could have done an entire Lennon-McCartney record and it would have been good.)

May favorites here are… all of them—but there’s a few worth mentioning again. “Dixie Cup of Sand” (John D. Loudermilk)—first time I’ve heard that song—is kind of weird and good. The most jaunty (and that’s sayin’ something) version I’ve yet heard of the massively over-covered “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters)—with a kitchen sink of extras—on paper that sounds like a disaster, but it actually makes me like that song again. “That Warm Sumner Night”—with cricket effects—great song. “(Theme from) A Summer Place” has one of her excellent, signature talking parts in it. Her version of Gershwin’s “Summertime”—the world’s most covered song—is one of the stranger takes I’ve heard (I even like it better than Lana Del Rey’s and Iggy Pop’s versions)—it makes the song new—and it’s even a little creepy. A version of The Shangri-Las’ “Remember (Walkin’ n the Sand),” is also weirdly atmospheric, a little odd—including weirdly off seagull effects. Her rendition of Chad & Jeremy’s “A Summer Song” is one of the more sadder and bubblegummier sad bubblegum songs I can recall. “Sunglasses” (Loudermilk again) I know from another of her records, and I always liked it—good lyrically. “That Summer Sunset” (Sandra Rhodes) is a song I don’t know at all—and it’s just about my favorite one here.

The other funny thing with this record is the extensive liner notes by Gerry Wood (Vanderbilt University) about what they went through to get this record on vinyl—I won’t go into it all—you’ll have to buy the record and spend a warm evening with your reading glasses and the back cover. But it has to do with Skeeter being hospitalized for exhaustion (a reminder that I really have to get around to reading her autobiography!) then, producer Chet Atkins selecting songs with Skeeter—but vamoosing to the Caribbean without telling anyone what songs (and Skeeter’s too out of it to remember). Meanwhile, new producer Felton Jarvis forges ahead with his own selection of songs—and the session going ahead with Ronnie Light singing—and then the engineers removing his voice—and Skeeter recovering… Okay, I just said I wasn’t going to recite it…  and there I go… Well, the record speaks for itself.  I’ll stop now. But first, I’ve got to add my favorite detail, when Skeeter woke from “medicated” sleep and said, “Bring me a cheeseburger and some pink thread.” Which strikes me as one of the more Skeeter Davis Skeeter Davis stories I’ve heard.

Swingin’ Medallions “Double Shot (Of My Baby’s Love)” / Sir Douglas Quintet “Mendocino”

The Boss turned me onto this song back in the late Seventies when I, at that point in time, related a lot more to double-shots than “my baby’s love”—though, honestly, I wasn’t drinking shots in bars (just huge red plastic buckets of shitty 3.2 beer) (that was a thing, in Columbus, Ohio). As far as hard liquor, I sipped it, savored it, whether or not with ice, from an old-fashioned glass. I’ll come right out and say it, probably the reason I (many of us, boys) drank so much, is because of the multiple layers of anxiety around the thoughts of impending sexual relations. Drinking was something that I could get a grip on—I felt in control—and the more I drank, the more I was in control—until I wasn’t. The song starts out with a hangover—well, actually, it starts with a catchy Farfisa riff and party sound effects, which is why Springsteen called it “fraternity rock.” If you listen closely to the lyrics, it’s not about drinking at all—it’s metaphorical—and it’s not even necessarily about sex—more likely, bubblegum love—but he’s saying that this girl he’s in love with affects him in a similar way to excessive drinking. The record is from 1966, but the song was first recorded a few years earlier by Dick Holler and the Holidays—great band name, though not as great as The Swingin’ Medallions, which I used to think was the best band name I’d ever heard (before I’d heard of The National) (I’m joking). They were from South Carolina, the only state I’ve never set foot in (besides them new ones).

This 45 happens to be one of those cheapo reissues (the label says “SMASH” and “ALL THE SMASH HITS”—which is redundant, but anyway—2 bands for the price of 1). So the B-Side is the Sir Douglas Quintet, a Texas band, singing about “Mendocino”—which is pretty far up the California coast—a place known for its natural beauty. I’ve never loved the song, but it makes sense here, as it also employs a cheesy organ and is to some degree a “fake live” record. It’s a love song (what else) as well—and maybe it’s not literally about Mendocino, but a “Mendocino state of mind”—I’m just speculatin’ here. Well, there’s also a reference to some dude with “strange red eyes”—so maybe it’s an early zombie song—not The Zombies, the band, but a song about zombies. Probably not.

Don Patterson “Satisfaction!”

I’d never heard of Don Patterson, but I love jazz organ, it’s on Prestige Records, there’s liner notes, recorded by Rudy Van Gelder, it’s a trio (Don Patterson, organ; Jerry Byrd, guitar; Billy James, drums), looks to be from 1966, and it must have been in a cheap bin, where you never see good jazz. The cover photo of (I assume) Don Patterson is funny—dark suit and skinny tie, cigarette—and he’s standing in front of some trees, like he’s in a forest. It makes no sense, but most of my favorite album covers don’t. The liner notes, by Bob Porter, are pretty entertaining. He gives some background on Patterson—he played with some “difficult” guys like Gene Ammons and Sonny Stitt, and so forth. Then he goes on and on about controversy in the jazz world over jazz organ music, which I wasn’t really aware of—I’ve just always loved what I’ve heard. Apparently, some purists found it either too commercial or too weird or maybe both at the same time, which really doesn’t make sense. Or perhaps they thought the organ was a gimmick? You try moving one of those things (the big Hammonds), they’re the size a Buick. And you think your done, and you’ve still got to move that Leslie speaker, the size of a Chevy. And don’t forget the bench. And pedals.

There are five tracks on the record—all of them long, except for the title track (kind of buried in the middle of Side B), a cover the Rolling Stones hit from the year before—and it’s actually 20 seconds shorter than the Stones song. Other than the melody, it has virtually nothing to do with it—sounds like it’s played with one hand (the other hand holding their noses)—no doubt hoping to sell some records with the title. The rest of the songs are much more satisfying—they’re all really good, particularly the two Don Patterson compositions on Side A. Including the one with the best title: “Bowl Full of Yok”—which would have been a better name for the album. There’s a lot of insane organ on this record, as you would hope. There’s at least one drum solo, and some really nice jazz guitar, including some solos. I spent a frantic few minutes (hours) picking The Big Brain about this guitarist, Jerry Byrd. I recently bought a jazz guitar record by Charlie Byrd—not the same dude. Well, there’s also Joseph, Donald, Jonathan, Steve, you-name-it Byrd—all musicians. And The Byrds had so many lineups, there must have been a Byrd among the Clarks and the Parsonses. But most significantly, there’s a Jerry Byrd who is a guitarist who I recently reviewed in these pages—but it was a Hawaiian music record, and he plays steel guitar—it just doesn’t make any since that this could be him. Finally, I found a brief listing for the jazz guitarist from Pittsburgh, who I believe this is—the drummer’s also from Pittsburgh. Both are excellent on this record. Don Patterson was born in Columbus, Ohio—he died relatively young (52), but put out a bunch of records, all with pretty good titles: (“Hip Cake Walk,” “Four Dimensions,” “Funk You!”). Probably any or all of them are worth checking out.

Dr Pepper “A Slice of Lemon”

Times may be weird, with grifters and clowns runnin’ the show—but grifters and clowns always been runnin’ the show—and I like to argue that as weird as times are, they were even weirder in 1966. Unfortunately, I was only six years old at the time and didn’t have the perspective at that age to appreciate it. It just seemed normal to me. Likewise, for a kid growing up now, to see every single person staring at a small rectangular device at all times—simply seems normal. God help us.

Anyway, here’s a slice of 1966 weirdness, brought to you by Dr Pepper, “The soft drink Ray Speen would drink, if he drank that shit.” (Unpaid plug—as is, every seven years when I go down the Dr Pepper ingredients rabbit-hole.) Instead of “Various” or “Columba Special Products,” I’m calling Dr Pepper the artist here, since they put up good money for this time capsule, and it doesn’t even say “Dr Pepper” anywhere on the front, back, or side cover, or the label! You would never know, if it weren’t for the intro track, by Dick Clark. The cover just confused me, because it says the title in big black letters, but there’s a very-light-yellow sliced lemon instead of the “o” so it ends up looking like: A SLICE OF LEM (followed by an N). LEM, in the late-Sixties, meant “Lunar Excursion Module.” Also, someone wrote their name on the cover, and their name was “Pumpkin.” After all that, I barely noticed the photo of three, young, blonde people (2 gals, 1 dude) in ski resort casual wear, in front of a fire, all with lascivious grins, and drinking a brown beverage in glass mugs—I assumed it was Keoke Coffee. There are liner notes on the back cover but it looks like someone threw up on it and cleaned it too vigorously (not vigorously enough), so I can’t read most of it—but it appears to be inane ad copy about each of the ten artists and songs.

The first time I listened to this record (without looking to see who was on it) I thought it must be the case that someone had slipped the wrong record in the cover—that’s how jarringly bizarre the whole thing comes off. Quiz question for later: which one of the musical artists represented here did I, at one time, see live? Anyway, the track that makes the most sense is the intro, by Dick Clark, where he tells us it’s specially produced for Dr Pepper during ski season, and then tells us how to make HOT Dr Pepper: pour some in a saucepan and heat it, then pour it over a slice of lemon. It sounds good, actually, but I’ve never heard of anyone doing that. What we did do in 1966, though, was pour Vernors Ginger Ale in a glass over half & half—delicious!

Even though the local AM radio played a pretty bizarre selection of shit in 1966 (our station, in Sandusky, Ohio, was WLEC), I’m not sure it was ever this all-over-the-place. But maybe it was, and I just blocked out half of it. Anyway, this was in the air. What follows then are songs by The Dave Clark Five, then The Brothers Four (at this point, you’re wondering if they are trying to connect each track by some linguistic device)—and it’s got to be the worst of all the lame versions of “Mr. Tambourine Man” out there. Next, a Percy Faith orchestral version of “Yesterday”—which is the only Beatles song I ever played, and the only song I ever learned, as a teen, to play on the piano with both left and right hand parts (which now is simply a sad reminder of me failing at piano). The New Christy Minstrels sing “Downtown,” always a great song, and then Tony Bennett gives us “The Good Life.”

Side 2 delves into jazz—The Dave Brubeck Quartet with “Little Girl Blue,” not bad. Then we have Andre Previn doing “Bluesette”—another attempt at a connection? Doris Day belts out “Fly Me to the Moon”—and so the only logical song to follow that is Bob Dylan belting out “Maggie’s Farm.” Why not. Ha! Why not. You really have to wonder if Dylan has this record in his collection. He must. Now I’m curious if he talks about it in that new book of his. Simon and Garfunkel singing “Leaves That Are Green” is a bit of a letdown, but at least, then, you’re okay to drive. And so… I hope you enjoyed this fitting intro to Farraginous February 2023—hard to believe it’s only 57 years later! The answer to the quiz question is: Tony Bennett.

Jeff Chandler “Sincerely Yours”

I’ve always been aware of Jeff Chandler, the Hollywood actor, because my brother was named after him, or so the story goes. But my parents didn’t give him the middle name “Chandler,” thinking that would be too much, so they gave him the same middle name as me (Scott)… thus I grew up thinking all siblings (at least of similar gender) had the same middle, as well as last, names. Similar to how I grew up thinking everyone had sliding doors, jalousie windows, and were allowed to say “fuck” at the dinner table. It was a valuable lesson when I learned other people have different experiences than my own… too bad it took me to like the age of 38. Anyway, he was in a lot of movies, and he has a pretty great look—he really reminds me of the artist rendition of detective Shell Scott is the books by Richard Prather—I don’t think he ever played Shell Scott—but I haven’t sifted through his extensive filmography yet. One thing I just read on the Big Board that I’d never heard—Race Bannon, the Jonny Quest character, was modeled after Jeff Chandler. I also didn’t realize his real name was Ira Grossel, and he died at the young age of 42. He sure worked a lot by then, though—besides all the movies, he also sang in nightclubs and recorded a few records. Though this one, from 1966, came out after his death. It’s got a great cover, a nice picture of him in nature, with a hat. There’s a fine selection of standards, with an orchestra, and from the first note you realize he can’t sing, but he goes about it like a pro. I have a particular fondness for singers that can’t sing—you could even say I’m a connoisseur of the form, and I’m not alone. And when I say “can’t sing,” that’s a shorthand way of saying he can sing, but his singing is somewhat unusual, even kind of weird, some might say odd—but pure heaven for Chandler fans. I guess I turned that into a longhand way of saying somewhat less… but then, I’m an idiot. I love this record, and I won’t hesitate to pick up more Jeff Chandler vinyl if I have the fortune of coming across it in the Mitch Miller bins.

Nancy Sinatra “Sugar Town” / “Summer Wine”

The single “Sugar Town,” from 1966, was Nancy Sinatra’s third or so big hit, after “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” and “How Does That Grab You Darlin’?”—all of them written by Lee Hazlewood. They had quite an inspired collaboration, the two of them. Lee Hazlewood is one of my favorite singers and songwriters, and probably one of Nancy Sinatra’s, as well. They really had something going. If Lee hadn’t come along, Nancy might be best known for “Somethin’ Stupid”—which isn’t bad, and even kind of twisted, but nowhere as twisted as some Lee H. songs (like “Some Velvet Morning”). As far as I know, they never were a couple, either, which strikes me as kind of cool. Also, I don’t think there’s anything to that old rumor that Frank’s henchmen took Lee out in the desert and dropped him off a cliff. I imagine Frank rather liked Lee. Anyway, it’s a nice, poppy song, and has the distinction of rhyming Tennessee and Tallahassee, but it’s hard not to hear it as a drug allegory—most likely some kind of opiate—but then, it could just as easily be about being in love—or having a run of good luck.

The B-side, “Summer Wine,” is much better, though. It’s also written by Lee Hazlewood—and is a Nancy and Lee duet. It’s a great song— a three-and-a-half-minute epic, with strings, drama, mysterious imagery. It’s essentially them alternating half a dozen verses, but as Nancy’s verse is repeated, it serves as the chorus, while Lee’s verses tell the story—pretty much a tragic Western noir. At first, Nancy’s lines (“Strawberries, cherries and an angel’s kiss in spring…”) sound innocent, nostalgic—but as Lee’s lines (“My silver spurs were gone, my head felt twice its size…”) advance the story of a cowboy who’s come to town to be seduced, drugged, and robbed—Nancy’s lines, even though they don’t vary, take on a completely darker complexion. With each of her parts, even though the words are exactly the same, you might hear increasingly sinister subtext. Again, it could be an allegory for drugs, or crime, or just love gone wrong. Maybe all of those, but then again, maybe something else as well. Or… dare you imagine it… maybe it’s simply love. It’s a pretty incredible song, actually—one of my favorites from those two.

Hank Williams and The Drifting Cowboys “Hank Williams”

I know pretty much nothing about history, religion, Shakespeare, or Hank Williams—yet I call myself a human being? But this is not the time to beat myself up—after all, it’s the first day of Farraginous February ’22, so there’s a lot to do. Reading even an abbreviated history of Hank Williams is not going to propel me to success—so I’m just going to write a quick assessment of this 1966 Hank Williams and The Drifting Cowboys LP on cheapo Metro records. It’s got a nice cover—a drawing of the man—enhanced because the record’s former owner, “Edna,” wrote her name on his hat. You might know that he didn’t reach the age of 30, yet in his brief songwriting and recording career made as much of an impact on country music as anyone—as well as American music, and pop music, and so forth. I used to have a double album compilation, from which learned a few of his songs—lost it, naturally. I don’t know how many Hank Williams records there are out there—maybe thousands, with various combinations—someone’s probably figured out a sum total of recordings. You could dedicate your life to it. Every single one I’ve heard is good—I always love his singing. He’s got a lot of pain in his voice for such a young man—even in the happiest and jauntiest songs—but I suppose he had plenty of time to experience pain. I guess one benefit of dying so young is he never had to grapple with trying to keep up with the kids, never recorded an embarrassing rap record, didn’t delve into psychedelia, didn’t gain 300 pounds and sweat out a leisure-suited Vegas review, didn’t spend a million dollars on a video with explosions, didn’t have a twitter account. Though maybe he did actually do all of those things—or versions of them, back in the day. I didn’t see the 1964 biopic starring George Hamilton, or the fairly recent one—though, now, I kind of want to. This is a swell record, ten songs, including the classics, “Wedding Bells” and “(I Heard That) Lonesome Whistle.” Other favorites of mine, here, are: “I’ll Be A Bachelor ’Til I Die, “ and “Beyond The Sunset”—a sad and really kind of weird one. My favorite on this record is “Too Many Parties, Too Many Pals” (Rose, Dixon, Henderson), which is a hilarious song—first time I ever heard it—I guess it’s an old song Hank breathed new life into. Almost the entire song is spoken—it seems to be a judge speaking to a jury, overseeing the trail of young, wayward, woman—and he points out how men are to blame. I’m not sure of the verdict, but you’ve got to give him credit for trying.

Sandy Posey “Single Girl”

Sandy Posey must have sold a lot of records in the late Sixties, because I’ve had no trouble finding inexpensive copies of them—the problem is, Sandy Posey fans listened to these records to death—they are always well-worn. I had a copy of this one, from 1966, earlier, but it was so warped as to be almost unplayable, so I eventually got rid of it. This copy plays okay but it’s so scratchy it sounds like someone used it as a soup tureen. I don’t mind the sound of scratchiness so much, but at this level of scratchiness it makes me feel like it’s doing my stylus grievous bodily harm. It’s such a good record, though, I’ll keep an eye out for yet another copy. I guess she had some big hits at around the time this came out—her first or second album—and so she had the good fortune of recording with some very good Nashville studio musicians and having the pick of some really great songs—sometimes a bit backwards lyrically—but all catchy and beautiful songs. That goes for the other Sandy Posey records I’ve heard as well. The songs, production, and performances fall into this area I like that’s, I guess, at the intersection of country, pop, and early rock’n’roll—kind of the area Skeeter Davis inhabited sometimes—and there is that record I have that’s SP on one side and SD or the other—and it’s a good one. I like all twelve songs on this record, but if I had to pick favorites they’d be: “Single Girl,” “Hey Mister,” “Patterns,” “The Last Day of Love,” “Shattered,” “Don’t Touch Me,” “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now),” and “I’m Your Puppet” (when considered ironically). Also, the album cover is the best of hers I’ve seen—she’s got a pretty menacing expression and is wearing a cadet blue trench coat with the collar turned up. Her monumental hairdo gives her an extra eight inches, easily. The background is blurred out, but she’s definitely standing next to an iron gate and a stone wall—giving the impression that she’s either just outside of a prison—or a factory that’s one step down from a prison. I suppose the idea here might be illustrating Single Girl—and the primary reason she’s single is because her dude’s locked up without much chance of parole. Or, if you want a darker take, seeing how “Single Girl” could be interpreted as an ode to prostitution, maybe she’s the one on the wrong side of the law.

Frank Sinatra “Moonlight Sinatra”

Nice that my random system picked a moon-themed record on this weekend of the “Sturgeon Moon”—but you’ve got to wonder. This one is from 1966—and it’s a pretty good Sinatra, with the Nelson Riddle orchestra. The only negative is the cover—not one of his better ones (there are some really inspired Sinatra covers, so, a lot of competition). I mean, it’s an okay artist’s rendering—just his face—and it looks like they tried to replicate moonlight shining on a person, which isn’t easy. He mostly looks an odd shade of purple, and a little seasick. I get it—I slept, like, not at all, last night. Ten songs with “Moon” in the title—I’m not going to list them all—but they’re all good. It was probably hard to resist the temptation to make a double album. My favorite is “Moon Love”—a song I particularly like because some friends and I named a band after it, back in the 80s. Other favorites here are: “Moonlight Becomes You” and “I Wished On The Moon”—and there are also some that I’m a little less familiar with, which is nice. There are brief but stellar liner notes, on back—by Stan Cornyn—who was an exec with Warner Bros—who the internet tells me won some Grammys for liner notes! I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but that makes me happy. This odd sentence caught my eye: “In a world whose people seldom look for love any farther than their own palms…” Whoa. And that was decades before the “Smartphone” was invented. Good liner notes! So I’m gonna excerpt an entire paragraph—I don’t think Stan Cornyn would mind: “The Moon: who is our Earth’s constant lover, who comes alive only in darkness, who comes back to us as inevitably as nightfall. To sing of the Moon, and not of missiles, of romance and not of fudge, of love and not lollipops, is old-fashioned. Something out of Grandma’s day. Out of date, like the stars. Non-chic, like Valentines. Corny, like your own heart’s beat.” Thank you, Stan Cornyn! And thank you Frank and Nelson… and thanks for nothin’ Sturgeon Moon. Nice Sinatra record. That last bit was mine, which is why, I guess, DJ Farraginous isn’t wining any Grammys.

Tommy Roe “Sweet Pea”

Tommy Roe was one of the first recording artists I bought records by, 45s, when I was in grade school. I was a bubblegum fan. His 1970 retrospective (12 in a Roe) was one of the first LPs I purchased (or got my parents to buy for me)—and I’ll eventually write about that, at length (the reader can hardly wait)—but because of the weird format of that album (interviews between songs) I had the impression that Tommy Roe was an old dude, at death’s door—and only now do I see he was born in 1942, so was not even yet 30 by that time! I guess that’s one reason I felt no need to search out more Tommy Roe, like this LP from 1966. It starts out with one of my favorites, “Hooray for Hazel,” which has always made me fond of that name, and in particular the one Hazel I ever met, who happened to save my life once (but that’s another story). This record also features “Sweet Pea,” another favorite, which if I recall correctly, was the song Samantha Morton was dancing to in the very best moment of the film version of Jesus’ Son. Most of these songs are by Tommy Roe, and are very good, including “Everybody” and “Sheila.” His covers are not as good—”The Folk Singer” is a stone-cold drag. “Under My Thumb” is so-so, and it’s interesting he does that song because a few of his songs are about conquering and destroying women on the battlefield of love—including “Hooray for Hazel” and “Party Girl”—which both have some lyrics, some verses, that you have to just take as humorous—if you don’t want to cringe to death. Apparently, even this LP is a retrospective—I guess he was, first, a singles artist, and the front cover lists his name and every song on the record—in four different font sizes and colors—along with an oddly unflattering photo. They should have used the much cooler b&w photo of him on the back, in a classic pose, touching a tree, the other hand on his belt, striped trousers, and his guitar sitting there in the weeds.