Tommy Roe “Dizzy” / “The You I Need”

The B-side, “The You I Need” is a decent if vapid and jaunty pop song—but did I ever listen to it? Maybe not. Probably once. It’s like two minutes long, yet contains a corny key change. “Dizzy,” however, is a pop love song masterpiece. I personally consider it… not one of the best… but the best. Besides the melody, and the way the low-key verses work with the ascending chorus, it’s the drums (corny, but they make the song) and the strings, which function like another percussion instrument. This might be the first record I ever owned—probably not, but I’m sure one of my first half-dozen 45s (well before I bought LPs). It’s amazing that I still have the exact same record—my initials stuck on the label twice. It’s traveled around with me for 50 years—how did that happen? And it still plays! Not real well, but if it was the last version on Earth, you could live with it. This is one of the records (along with “I Think I Love You”) that I associate with my first crush on a girl, third grade or so. Every time I’d listen to it, then, my heart would practically melt (you know, like the guy in the song). And that went on for years—long after the crush had gone its way. And the weird thing—to this day—the song does the same thing to me. It really does. Which leads me to believe I can’t be trusted. It’s not the best song ever recorded. It’s not even my favorite all-time song. But it’s the purest personal example of nostalgia overwhelming all other faculties.

All this time, and I’ve never even bothered to look up who wrote the song, when the record came out, etc. Okay—1968 release—so third grade, like I thought. I mean, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be an eight-year-old—I guess I always assumed a simple-minded munchkin. Yet… here I was with a full spectrum of emotions and a sophisticated musical appreciation—to the extent that I’ve never grown out of it. That’s kind of incredible. It was written by Tommy Roe (he did write a lot of his hits, I believe) and Freddy Weller, another Sixties singer and songwriter with a similar haircut to Tommy Roe. What was the collaboration like, I wonder, with Tommy and Freddy? And the musicians? Of course… The Wrecking Crew. That doesn’t surprise me at all. Hal Blaine is playing those drums. Jimmie Haskell with the sting arrangement. It was probably part of a day’s work in some LA studio for those cats—I mean, I’m sure they were cool with it—probably happier with some recordings than others. When it became a number one hit, I’m sure that was sweet. But how many people are there, out there, like me, for whom this song is it? A few people covered it, of course, but most notably, Wreckless Eric—one of my all-time favorites. And the first punk band I was in, the Bursting Brains, we even played it (probably at my insistence). One of those “life goals,” ticked off.

Lambert, Hendricks and Ross “The Way-Out Voices of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross”

Apparently this is a 1968 re-release of the 1962 LP, “High Flying”—though, I like this album cover better than the original— by my favorite vocalese trio—Dave Lambert, Jon Hendricks, and Annie Ross. They’re backed up here by The Ike Isaacs Trio. It’s kind of a post-mortem record—in that they were no longer a band, and also, sadly, Dave Lambert had died in a tragic accident, in 1966.They only put out a handful of records—though maybe they printed a lot—as I come across their records regularly, for not much money. I wonder if they fell out of favor with audiences at some point since their style is a little bizarre, probably considered an acquired taste, and certainly “way-out.” I could imagine both jazz purists and jazz novices being scared off, and others finding the extreme nature of the style off-putting. I don’t know! To me, they are 100% delightful, all the time, and that includes the 11 tracks on this LP. Maybe I’m wrong, and they’re still a big deal with fans—I’m sure they are—that rarified group of Lambert, Hendricks and Ross superfans—my kind of crowd.

I was going to save this one for posting on my Halloween special—(and viola, no H. special)—anyway, the reason for that is because there’s a song called “Halloween Spooks”—which is one of the stranger Halloween-themed songs I’ve heard (written by Dave Lambert). The lyrics are odd enough—“can’t find the children”—that’s kind of alarming! And then there’s some truly otherworldly wailing—but not like you’d imagine—I mean some messed-up, out-there wailing—you have to hear it. Besides that, there’s one great song after another, including three by Horace Silver—two with the word “Cookin’” in the title, including my fav, “Home Cookin’”—which is about soul food. I am partial to songs about food—but of course, it’s about more than just food—there’s a lot to take in—candied yams, collard greens, etc.—but it’s really more about women. It’s kind of an epic, though not exactly a feminist anthem—though, who knows, maybe it is, in a backwards way.

The prettiest song on the record is “Blue” (by Gildo Mahones)—quiet and sad and subtle. (Little else on this record could be accused of being subtle!) My very favorite on the record is “Farmer’s Market”—written by Annie Ross and Art Farmer (get it?)—it reminds me somewhat of my favorite Annie Ross song, “Twisted.” It’s about a young woman going to a farmer’s market… and then a whole lot about beans! I can’t think of another song that’s so much about beans (even jellybeans). But what else is it about? Well, the guy selling beans isn’t the usual bean guy, but a cute hipster. My first inclination is, of course, sex—which is usually the case. But then it just goes right off into outer space—I can’t even begin to hope to paraphrase here! I can’t even begin to follow it—and I’m afraid that even if I could make out all the lyrics, it might be beyond my understanding. And that alone makes this my favorite song on the record! Blame it on the beans!

Gerd Zacher – Mauricio Kagel / Juan Allende-Blin / György Ligeti – “Phantasie Für Orgel Mit Obbligati” / “Sonorités” / “Volumina” and “Étude Nr.1 (‘Harmonies’)”

It’s vacation time and once again I’m staying in a remote cabin in the “North Woods,” far from the heat of the city and the oppression of the internet. No sports scores, no race results. There’s a deck of cards, which can function as a prayer book, or a deck of cards, and there’s a bottle opener screwed into the wood above the sink. There’s an old record player which is probably the most newfangled thing there, and there are a few LPs. First, I get hung up on Patsy Cline and my memories (of Patsy Cline), but then I see this old, odd album I know nothing about stuck in with the all-too-familiar Mitch Millers and Herb Alperts. Its cover has seen better days and the liner notes are entirely in German! Yet it plays great—it seems to be some really sturdy German pressed vinyl—or maybe it was only played once—that’s what it looks like, and it’s been protected in a high quality, Deutsche Grammophon Gesellschaft (that’s the label) paper and plastic sleeve.

The glossy orange cover is topped by four bands of increasingly lighter, yellow orange. It’s nice. There’s a blue dot that I, at first, think is part of the design (it’s quite pleasing, compositionally), but then I see it’s a hand-marked price sticker (1.50—not sure if that’s dollars, euros, or Deutschemarks). There’s what looks like a “coffee cup ring,” also nice compositionally, clever—yet, I think it’s “real”—someone used this cover as a coaster. Under the label logo, upper righthand corner, in heavy black letters it says: avant garde—its placement leads me to think it’s a series. Though… there’s no indication of that on the label, itself—where it does say GEMA—which should be a word, in English, but is not. Then, as a “title,” there are six lines of text, all lower case, some of it names, and some in German, and what seems to me far more punctuation than could possibly be necessary. The only real clue to what’s here comes from the label itself. Side A is: Mauricio Kagel performing “Phantasie für Orgel mit obbligati,” and Juan Allende-Blin doin’ “Sonorités.” It also says, “Gerd Zacher, Orgel,” but in smaller letters, like it’s an afterthought. Side B, then, has György Ligeti “Volumina,” and “Étude Nr. 1 (‘Harmonies’).” Once again, Gerd Zacher, Orgel, so maybe it is important. Mulling this over… for some reason I remember to take one of my prescription antacids (one a day). Isn’t Zacher a kind of pastry? Now I’m hungry.

So, now, for the record. It’s primarily organ, but scary organ, horror movie stuff, though more scary than that—like the scariest movie ever? Could “Orgel” be a mashup of organ and ogre? And might Gerd Zacher be the German Zacherley? There are other sounds, too, like sound effects, occasionally, somewhat disturbing. A lot of silence, too—really quiet parts, along with some stretches of near silence, which I find quite effective. I make the mistake of checking out the back cover again and to my dismay, I notice that the liner notes have been translated! Could this have happened since I looked at it last, or did I just think it was German, at first? I haven’t been drinking. Oh, maybe it’s both—the problem is, the font is so miniscule, in the low light in this cabin (drafty oil lamp, and so forth) it’s really hard to read. It’s a smaller font than some of my early zines, which everyone complained about. But I have to do my duty and try to make sense of this. The text is by Dieter Schnebel, and the first thing I see mentioned is musique concrète, so now it’s beginning to make more sense, as there are some tape-recorded things—it sounds like some voices (can’t make out what they’re saying), and now it sounds like we’re on a transit system. Then back to the organ. One organ note, held for a really, really, really long time. The second side, then, more of the same. Some really loud organ, like one chord held until it hurts. I don’t want to say something dumb like, “I could play that,” well, because I couldn’t. I have neighbors. I mean, they’re like a mile down the road, but I’m going to take a wild guess that they have guns. Now dude’s rockin’ out (I’m assuming it’s a dude). I’m thinking about those rock stars in the Seventies who would pretend to “fuck” their organ, which got old. Or, like Keith Emerson—I remember him pulling that big, old Hammond organ over on himself, like it was crushing him. Am I misremembering that?—because that would crush you. Now we’re to the point where it sounds like nothing so much as that part in 2001: A Space Odyssey when it gets all psychedelic—deep space, I guess. I miss the recorded sounds from the first side. I want to listen to that over again—Schnebel mentioned a toilet flushing (I probably thought it was mine, except there isn’t one here) and an egg timer—which is what, exactly?

Jefferson Airplane “Crown of Creation”

Not having ever heard this album, I don’t think, I was alarmed when the first song transported me right back to my Renaissance Faire days, and besides that has goofy sound effects—though the typewriter is nice. After that, though, the record sounds like Jefferson Airplane, inasmuch as I have an idea of what the band sounds like in my relatively limited exposure to them (I never was a big fan, though I’ve always liked them. But I didn’t have any of their records, growing up). The album cover apparently did not register with me because I accidentally bought a copy when I already had one. It’s funny, they are both worn out in exactly the same way—looking like they were stuck tightly in the same Peaches crate since 1968. There’s a photo of the band huddled in the middle of what looks like a nuclear explosion, though for whatever reason, my brain registered the whole thing as a semi-abstract rendering of a giant chicken head. Also, funny, the photo of the band is altered (and there’s a larger version on back) so it looks like you’re seeing double (funny in light of me buying two of them).

It’s a good record, so I’d be happy to give my extra copy to someone—and I also plan on listening to mine, on occasion, which is, from me, a five-star review. I love their style and their sound—I kind of regret I didn’t buy all their records as a lad. An interesting thing occurred to me, during one particularly laid-back song, and it echoed a thought I had the other day while listening to some hippie folk blues rock (can’t remember what), and that was how I heard a spot that noticeably lagged a bit—that is, there was not that mechanical adherence to time that you hear with music that’s recorded on a digital grid, or however it’s done, now. A little messy, a little lazy, a little intoxicated—I don’t know, but 100% human and soulful. When I’m walking around, hearing music that’s enforced seemingly everywhere, I often find myself getting irritated—not because I recognize it or don’t (I don’t, usually)—why? Maybe it’s because it’s made by machines more than it’s made by humans, I don’t know. Anyway, it would be nice to hear a song from this record in the mall, someday (though maybe not “The House at Pooneil Corners”—unless you’re shopping for survival supplies). Actually, I’d love to hear that at the mall.

Laura Nyro “Eli and the Thirteenth Confession”

I never listened to Laura Nyro when I was younger—except for, of course, the songs that were on the radio—in which case I had no idea it was Laura Nyro—and over the years I heard that name without attaching it to any of those songs. I used to see her records in cheap bins and thrift stores all the time—she was on a major label (Columbia) and had an early pop radio hit (“Wedding Bell Blues”) so it’s likely she sold a lot—making them accessible, now. Anyway, during a particular lull a few years back, one day it came over me to look up Laura Nyro on the big database, at which time I saw her discography, and learned that she died at a young age—though I didn’t read much else. I then decided I’d make it a project to listen to all of her records—since I could actually find vinyl copies. Of course, when I then went to the store with the particular intention of finding her records, I could no longer find any. This went on for the better part of a year—very frustrating—but then I found one, and another… and now I have the first half-dozen or so. This is her second LP—from 1968.

There’s a full band on this record, horns even, though piano is at the heart of the matter. There’s a nice balance with her singing—and she does a lot of singing—there are backing vocals, as well, which sound like Laura Nyro, too—so that’s my guess. Thirteen songs altogether, each one a pop song experience—I’m not familiar with any at first, until “Poverty Train,” which I’ve heard somewhere. And then on the second side, “Stoned Soul Picnic” I recognize from the Fifth Dimension version. I believe a few people had hits with her songs. As I’ve said a million times, I’m not good at isolating lyrics—and maybe isolating is the right word, at least for me—because for me to register lyrics I have to cease listening to the song as a whole and favor the words over the music. I don’t like doing that, really, at least until I’ve heard a record a lot of times and have the music ingrained in my memory. So even if there’s a lyric sheet, I don t like to read it until I know the music pretty well. Does that make any sense? I don’t think other people necessarily have this problem—some people pick up the lyrics immediately. No lyric sheet here—though there is an inner sleeve with a Columbia Records rundown of “new artists”—with quite a bit of writing, even—which looks interesting—might be worth a review of its own. Good songs—Laura Nyro can write songs, that’s for sure. “Woman’s Blues” is a standout on the second side. She sure can sing, too—almost too much—but I’m not going to be critical—because it’s what she does—sings to excess. Overall, I like this record like I like breakfast and coffee—and I’m feeling happy my Laura Nyro experiment is starting out on a worthwhile foot.

Vanilla Fudge “The Beat Goes On”

It was while listening to and writing about two other Vanilla Fudge albums (somehow I had a record and cover that didn’t match, so I tackled both of them) that I became aware of this one, so I kept my eye out for it, and soon found a copy. Also, I heard drummer Carmine Appice mention it in an interview on The Trap Set podcast. So, I was stoked to find a copy. Whenever I say “stoked,” I’m being ironic, because I hate that phrase (just so you know). I’m not going to do a play-by-play of this record—you can find other people writing about it easy enough—and you can find it streaming, or a vinyl copy, like I did—and it’s better if you just hear it for yourself. I occasionally make things up, and if I was to accurately describe this record, readers might think I’m fabricating my description for humorous intent. That’s how weird it is. Good weird or bad weird, that is the question. I imagine that many listeners find it unlistenable-ly weird. But for me, nothing ever gets weird enough, really. This record comes close—maybe even crosses the line.

There are just so many red flags right off the bat—but the front cover isn’t one of them. Even though text in other languages often indicates pretension, it looks nice, as does the band and album name in a cheerful, rainbow font. Also, it opens up, and there are b&w portraits of band members behind wavy glass—which looks nice. And something to read (for later) about each one. The credits on back is where the red flags lie. First of all, whenever someone says (about an album, not a movie): “Produced and DIRECTED by”—run the other direction. In this case, it’s Shadow Morton. (Also, it’s “Starring” the band members. Yikes.) Next, anytime you see: Mozart and Beethoven on a rock record, beware! Also, a Lennon & McCartney cover is a giant bummer (which infected pop records for several decades like a lingering disease. Like I’ve said before, I love the Beatles, but there are very, very few good covers of their songs). And here there are FOUR—presented in a kind of medley (another red flag)—that sound like they were recorded with tin cans and string. But why not. Most of this record is on the bad side of “nearly unbearable, even the first time around,” but for all that, the “The Beat Goes On” variations/theme—I find pretty okay. Once I was in an old Italian restaurant in New York’s Little Italy neighborhood, and there was an old guy—I’m guessing a regular—sitting in a booth, and every so often he would say, “The beat goes on,”—just out of nowhere, in reference to nothing, but clear as a bell. It was pretty great.

The band bios inside, while promising, are mind-numbingly dull. Which could be by design (intended to be read while listening, as I’m doing)? There are, however, a few standout details. Mark enjoys golf and bowling, likes good food and jazz, and doesn’t like narrow-minded people. Outside of his band duties, Tim spends time drag racing and rebuilding stereo sets. And he likes Chinese food and doesn’t like “hypocritical ‘day’ people.” Carmine also builds and races cars, when he has time away from girls. He rebuilds stereo sets, as well, and likes buying clothes, and is involved in “wild interior decorating.” And Vinnie? He also likes cars. Sadly, Tim passed away last year. The other three are still with the current version of the band—playing some live shows this fall, if you want to catch them. Don’t be a jerk and stand in front yelling, “The beat goes on,” okay?

Glen Campbell “Hey, Little One”

On the cover there’s what looks like a red, Mosrite, resonator guitar with “Glen Campbell” on the fretboard—it’s a cool looking guitar—I wonder who owns it, at this point? On the back cover there’s a b&w photo, that looks like it’s taken from a water-tower, of Glen walking the tracks with his guitar case. I believe this record came out the year after “By the Time I get to Phoenix,” and I doubt if he was riding the rails at this point, but it’s a nice image. I like this record just fine—I can always listen to Glen Campbell. It’s not going to be one of my favorites, due to the omission of Jimmy Webb songs, which are the best. Songs here are all over the place; there’s two by John D. Loudermilk, a Bob Dylan, a Bob Lind, a Roy Orbison—I’m surprised there’s no Beatles. Not a record I’ll probably put on too often, just because I like one or two others better. The best thing here might be that cover photo.

Richard Harris “A Tramp Shining”

Even though “MacArthur Park” is Richard Harris’ most well-known song, I’ve heard this album less than his other ones, for some reason. I guess this was his first solo album. I’m not sure how he and Jimmy Webb got together—I’m sure Jimmy Webb’s version is in his memoir, which I’d like to read sometime. It’s no surprise that all of these songs are really catchy, quite romantic, and a little corny. I mean corny in the best way—or at least in the way I like. I know this kind of somewhat overblown, baroque, romantic, pop song is a bit much for some people, but you’ve just got to let it wash over you. If you allow it to, this music can really fill some missing part of whatever might be missing, for you. I don’t know who I’m talking to, here—any fans of this stuff know what I’m talking about—though I’m guessing almost everyone I know resists it. There are little “interludes” between a lot of the songs, which is a nice touch. Pretty much all of the songs, maybe all, have some heavy-duty string arrangements, and there are also some first rate LA studio musicians playing. I’m a huge fan of Jimmy Webb’s songwriting—so that’s primarily where it’s at, for me. And then, it’s Richard Harris’ singing—his super-dramatic style, that pretty much takes it over the top, and then some.

Like the rest of the Richard Harris records, I’m going to include this as a regular listening one—and I’m sure in time I’ll develop some favorites among some of these songs, though they’re all good. Right now, I’ll say, “If You Must Leave My Life” is right up there. “MacArthur Park,” though, really is a masterpiece. There are two types of people in the world, those who think it’s a masterpiece, and those who can’t stand that song (and while I respect your opinion, I wildly disagree). If you haven’t heard it in awhile, your memory of it might be that it’s like 20 minutes long, but at just over seven minutes, it’s incredibly economical, in that there are four distinct parts to. It really is kind of amazing. I guess one thing that does bother people is that they have no idea what the crucial part of the lyric means: “Someone left the cake out in the rain.” The confusion here always baffled me. Are you familiar with the the phrase, “I love you?” Now there a is real mystery, but you don’t hear people whining, “what’s that mean.” “Someone left the cake out in the rain” means: “Someone left the cake out in the rain.” Well, plus more. Like with “I love you”— how there’s something behind that, which means much, much more—the same is true with the lyrics of this song. What’s with people needing to have everything spelled out of them, anyway? It’s not something you reinterpret with clunky explanations—it’s something you feel.

5 Stairsteps & Cubie “Love’s Happening”

I didn’t know this band at all, and saw a beat-up copy of this LP in an antique store—but it plays fine and sounds good. It reminded me of the Jackson 5 on the first song, but then I don’t know the Jackson 5 other than the hits, and they were a few years later? Most of the songs are by Curtis Mayfield, and are all good, plus he’s the producer. They are proclaimed “The First Family of Soul” on the back of the record, so I’ll buy it—they even list their names and ages on back, kids from 15 to 19, plus Cubie who’s 3, and called “the old man.” I love the picture on the cover, the 1968 fashions—and it looks like it’s taken in the storage room of a department store—some truly bizarre details in this photo—something that would never happen now in this age of overthinking, over editing, over photoshopping. The little guy, I assume that’s Cubie, is wearing a yellow, red, and blue Mondrian scarf—I swear I had that same scarf when I was about the age of this record! It’s on Curtis Mayfield’s “Curtom” label, and the label art is very cool—kind of bizarre—there’s what looks like a tiny scorpion as part of the logo. “Don’t Change Your Love” jumps out as a killer song. But I like them all. They’re be an upbeat number, then a slower, more soulful one, back and forth, and that works well here. I like this record a lot, second or third time through, I’m liking it more. This is the best four dollars I’ve spent in awhile—I think I’ll keep this one out for listening.

Gene & Debbe “Hear & Now”

I spotted this record used, a beat up but playable copy, and it was the first I heard of Gene & Debbe. It’s a great cover, with the words in a slightly psychedelic font, each a different color: ghost green, hot pink, acid orange, and boring blue. Mostly, though, it’s this big b&w photo of Gene & Debbe—Gene staring at the camera like you’ve got exactly four minutes to get this photo, and Debbe just in front of him in profile (she’s quite beautiful) with her hair up in a beehive that won’t quite behave. You know there’s an empty can of Aqua Net very nearby. Liner notes on back (as well as two songs, the saddest ones) are by my man, Mickey Newbury, short, but concrete dense. Not one for the light touch. Though he does slip a little—perhaps unnerved by Debbe’s luminance—and says, of her: “Like the cream in a morning’s first cup of coffee.” I, for one, forgive him. Gene Thomas and Debbe Nevills were a Nashville pop/folk/country duo who had a hit song (“Playboy,” on this record), a handful of other singles, and one album, this one, from 1968.

Odd LPs with great covers are often bummers musically, but I’m liking this one a lot. I’m guessing the hot playing by some uncredited Nashville pros doesn’t hurt. The eleven songs are all catchy, and six are by Gene Thomas. The cover song of greatest note is “Let It Be Me”—which happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time—recorded by everyone and their mother. Gene sounds more than a bit like Sonny Bono. Debbe doesn’t sound like Cher, that would be weird, but her voice is similarly striking—her voice is great. It makes this record, really. It’s kind of like the morning’s first cup of black coffee. You know, my life has been so much better since I got used to drinking coffee black. It wasn’t easy (kind of like quitting smoking), but now I prefer it. Truthfully, this record, as pleasant and listenable as it is, really comes to life every time Debbe sings. Gene’s a tad whole milk, or even 2%. I guess I’ve kind of developed a crush on Debbe, as I listen to this again. “Go With Me” sounds really familiar, I wonder if someone else did it? Debbe takes these kind of simple words (“take my hand”) and just twists them, so they just pierce your heart—and I don’t even think she knows. I guess they were a couple, for awhile, then broke up. I suppose it wasn’t easy, being either a duo or couple, with people like me trying to steal Debbe away from him—but who can blame us?