Johnny Cash “A Boy Named Sue” / “San Quentin”

The only thing worse than a novelty record is a live novelty record—but this one, from 1969, has an odd place in my heart. I still have (somehow!) the same record I bought when I was nine years old, though I haven’t actually listened to it for probably near half a century—having turned against it at some point. Hearing it again, now, though, is funny—it brought back the progression of thoughts I had about it over time. It’s written by Shel Silverstein and was a big hit for Johnny Cash, who I used to see on TV—it seemed like regularly—and no doubt at least once singing this one. I liked him, and listening to it now, I can see how compelling he is, even doing a joke song—the band is also very good, stripped down, and tough. Most likely the first thing I noticed, as a kid, was that I was able to understand the irony in the story—a kid’s dad named him Sue in order to toughen him up by having him deal with ridicule. Neither amused nor appreciative of the gesture, the kid spends his young life hunting down his dad to kill him—eventually they fight, but then Dad explains why he did it. After my initial understanding, though, a few alternate ideas set in. Why did this piece of shit parent use such a shortcut? Why didn’t he stick around and maybe teach the kid in a more conventional way? And then, why was the bullying that the kid was subjected to simply accepted as inevitable? The thing that saved the song, for me, was the double ironic twist at the end where the kid appreciates his dad, finally, but vows, if he has kids—a boy—to give him a boy’s name! It’s a good, disarming ending. But I was still bugged by the other problems, and by that time, too, I was beginning to be against fighting. Though, ultimately, the thing that might have turned me against the record was it being overplayed—on TV, the radio, and at home (I only had a handful of choices). A humorous story song like this soon wears out its welcome.

The other side is “San Quentin”—both songs were recorded live at San Quentin Prison—this one written by Johnny Cash. As you might guess, a song in which he sings: “San Quentin… I hate every inch of you…” goes over pretty well among the audience there. The main sentiment of the song, besides hating the prison, is that the experience of prison will do no good as far as changing the prisoner for the better—it’s simply punishment, but there’s no reform—nothing good about it, whatsoever. Again, the band is great, just guitar, bass, and minimal drums, and there’s also some women backup singers, briefly, which I didn’t remember—almost not there—on the instrumental break, singing “San Quentin” all of like two times. I didn’t like this one as much, as a kid, but I think I appreciated the “plain talkin’.” There’s no ironic twist at the end of this song—it’s short and simple. Focusing the hatred on the place, however, rather than the people responsible for the place, is interesting. Plus, he sounds like he’s singing from personal experience—though, in this case, there’s no intriguing admission of shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die (fictional or not). At any rate, he’s convincing—what a voice! —I’m sure when I was a kid, I really believed that he was a hardened criminal. With a voice like that, he could convince you that he’d been retrieved from thirty days in the hole just that morning.

Spanky & Our Gang “Anything You Choose b/w Without Rhyme or Reason”

I missed out on Spanky & Our Gang—among the sunshine pop purveyors from the Sixties—too young, so I was more in the bubblegum camp, I guess—I was still watching the Little Rascals version (I was also too young, pretty much, for the Young Rascals). I wonder if I didn’t see them on one of those late-nite rock shows—I guess that’s likely—but they never registered with me. I bought this record solely based on the weird cover—it is acid casualty yellow with red and blue highlights—a photograph of the band high-contrasted to beyond the pleasing. The name of the band is so abstracted I couldn’t make it out until I was at home and worked on it for a while. Five dudes with moustaches (Our Gang) and a woman (Elaine “Spanky” McFarlane) in a band pose, probably wearing normal hippie threads, but because of the extreme pupil-dilation-view, they look like they’re wearing radiation suits. The first thought I had was this was a crew hired to go into dangerous radioactive disaster sites to perform heroic deeds. The inner sleeve is even more psychedelic with kaleidoscopic band images carrying over, even, to the actual label—on Mercury, who I guess humored them, though they couldn’t have been huge stars. Though maybe they were—or it was going that way—this is their third LP, from 1969.

They do that indulgent, annoying thing—naming the sides: “Side A” and “Side 1”—okay, we get it, but that’s not helpful for us not free enough to just put on “whatever” side first. The music is all over the place, from: “Rather annoying, might not put this on again anytime real soon,” to: “I really like that song a lot and want to hear it again and would put it on a mix tape if I still made mix tapes!” So what I’ll do is ignore the stuff I don’t care for and list the stuff I really like—starting with side… I don’t know… whatever. “And She’s Mine” is an infectious pop number—at least until you listen to the lyrics—“She’s good, she’s sweet, she’s kind, and she’s mine”—which strikes me as a little square. “Yesterday’s Rain”—the singer (Spanky?) sounds a little like Grace Slick—and the multiple backup vocal parts are inventive—I’m guessing it’s political (“rain”). As is, “Give a Damn”—and I like the sentiment—made easy to swallow with this soaring approach—which could be the best Pepsi ad ever conceived (Pepsi wishes). “Without Rhyme or Reason” is as smooth as can be, with its Brazilian stylings—and someone’s playing one of those wooden fish, which always cheers me up. “1-3-5-8” is one of those “row row row your boat” vocal goofs (I don’t remember the name of the form), but they really take it to an adult level (should be called “1-3-5-8-11”). “Jane”—another nice pop love song—and I’m guessing it’s about Jane. “Since You’ve Gone” starts out as the prettiest song on the record (my favorite stuff is when Spanky’s singing)—then has a weird bridge that sounds like people “literally” fighting. I don’t know if “you” left (they were fighting) or died (they were really fighting). Pretty and disturbing (an intriguing combination).

Spirit “Clear”

I’ve been intrigued with Spirit enough to buy a few of their early records—it also helped that I could find inexpensive copies—though they’re all beat to shit—but they still sound good! I haven’t written about any before now—though I did recently freak out over a Randy California solo record—and he’s in this band, as you know. I’m not going to read about them—just yet—I mean how the individual dudes melded to make a whole—who might be the leaders, and who might be jilted—too many guys—too many names—not enough time! This is pure sound I’m going on. I did glance at their discography—this is their third LP—I like that they’re on Ode Records, with the yellow school bus cheapo looking label. One thing fun about them is you don’t know what’s coming next—they mash together hippie blues, psychedelic pop, progressive rock, ballads, instrumentals, jams—lots of percussion, lots of guitar, various singers—though… the lyrics elude me at this point—the few I’ve made out sound like they were hard-earned. In pictures I’ve seen of them, including this album cover and back cover—the five of them look like a band—all quite hairy—except for one guy, excellent jazz drummer Ed Cassidy—who was actually Randy California’s stepfather—the “old guy” in the band. (Much older than Jack Casady (not related, different band), and even older than Jack Cassidy (father of David, Shaun—the musical Cassidys just keep coming), and even older than Neal Cassady, who probably died during the making of this record (also not related).) Ed Cassidy is as bald as a cue ball. Remember, back in 1969 bald guys weren’t a dime a dozen like they are now—virtually no one was bald but Yul Brynner, and the cast of Kung Fu (and even that was 1972).

Well… I really like this record, so I’m going to describe it the best I can while listening and being free with my observations. I’m not going to list songs (there are six to a side) because I feel like they are conforming to song structure somewhat against their most natural instincts (I may be, and am probably, wrong about this, but it’s what I’m hearing). So I’m going to pretend it’s a single musical piece, only restricted by the two sides of an LP. Why there are “bombs falling” sound effects (like Flipper’s “Sex Bomb”) during a song about a “dark eyed woman” I have no idea—maybe there are metaphors working in both directions—of course there are. Already, a percussion break—nice—tempo change in the next “song”—solid—but at this point we think we’re in for a whole record of hippie guitar blues, so I’m happy to report we’re now selling something—not sure what—happiness? And now… one of those sex songs disguised as a fairytale. And next… they’re moving off down the tunnel of death, until… someone had a little too much zappa with lunch. After running some errands, maybe a siesta… hitman from south of the border… movie score. What’s this, a harmony-rich psych-pop ballad? —you can fall either on the side of beautiful… or cornball. While I’m deciding, it’s back to drug-rock (songs with “Truckin’” in the title are 100% about drugs, 0% about the conveyance of goods). Less than brief interlude. Sleaze. Sly cartoon cat is up to something. Best for last… a compact (4:24) fervent mini-opera about futility.

The Peppermint Rainbow “Will You Be Staying After Sunday”

Was The Peppermint Rainbow one of those bands with names like The Peppermint Airplane, The Marshmallow Overcoat, The Chocolate Alarm Clock, The Marzipan Table Saw, The Peanut Butter Rainbow? No doubt. I’m getting very little from the album cover—the front looks like it was meticulously composed and executed by a 7^th Grade stoner during a week of concentrated study halls. Maybe a little more information will help. “Sunshine Pop”—from Baltimore—they formed in 1967 and this record is from 1969. The band members were not the songwriters, here, in Peppermint Rainbow Universe.

The back is as full-size photo of the band standing in front of some oppressive architectural behemoth in matching costumes. (There should be a category by now, albums in which the back, or inside, cover should be THE cover.) They look great—the men with light blue flared slacks and matching scarves, dark blue shirts, and white leather shoes. The women have matching light blue mini-dresses with dark blue sashes and white leather go-go boots. They all have great hair. Three men, two women. The guy nearest us, and thus biggest, has a great moustache, plastic frame glasses, and a massive belt, the buckle of which is a plain silver ring about four inches in diameter—I don’t even know how that belt works—and now I’m kind of obsessed with finding one. It doesn’t mean anything weird, does it, that belt? That reminds me, I recently had a dream in which a couple of guys had belt buckles like that—the dream just came back to me—and now I’m seriously creeped out!

Decca Records, no date, no info but producer and arranger and songwriting credits—names I’m not previously familiar with. Romantic pop songs, all mildly catchy. Wait, here’s “Green Tambourine”—I know that one! It’s one of those radio hits from the Sixties that did nothing but annoy me. So, this isn’t shaping up well. Even worse, that was The Lemon Pipers, but producer Paul Leka co-wrote “Green Tambourine” (he also wrote that “Na Na Na Na…” song by Steam, sadly adopted by mindless legions of annoying sports fans sung in fascistic anthemic style), and he used the backing tracks from The Lemon Pipers (if we’re to believe the Wikipedia) for this version here—which makes this equally annoying. But also weird and parallel-universe-y.

Anyway, The Peppermint Rainbow were originally called The New York Times, but they changed their name—I can’t imagine why. Because they found out there was a newspaper by that name? Because they were afraid of aways having to play on double bills with Huey Lewis and The News? They split up in 1970, sadly, because this album is not bad. I can listen to it. The title song transports you to a sunny, colorful, TV show that includes conflict each week and tackles some serious themes—but, ultimately, love prevails, because of the good hearts of the people involved (who are also all unbearably cute). My favorite song is “Sierra (Chasin’ My Dream)”—besides being a good title, it’s a smooth pop song, and the most melancholy track on the album. About a guy who’s leaving behind his girlfriend for his guitar—always a bad idea, because she’s not going to wait. She just isn’t. The guitar will wait. It will even sound better, in time. But his girlfriend… she has moved on. (I made up the end part, but a good song will do that to you…)

James O’Gwynn “One Bar Stool at a Time” / “Scene of My Latest Sin”

“I’m comin’ home to you one barstool at a time,” is the one-line chorus. It’s got such a gnarly sound, I can’t make out all the lyrics—the record looks like maybe he had it with him on his journey, maybe using it as a coaster—but the idea is, he keeps drinking, inching from barstool to barstool, getting up the nerve to go home to “you.” The world is reduced to a bar, some wine, and what can’t be a healthy relationship. I don’t know why I find country songs about barstools and drinking so romantic when I hate bars and I don’t drink. It’s a good sign that I’m an idiot, I guess. “I’ve just left the scene of my latest sin,” is the chorus of the B-side—it’s a little slower, sadder, regretful—but it’s about cheatin’. James O’Gwynn, from Mississippi, cranked out the country records in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. This 45 is from 1969, on the STOP label (logo in the shape of a stop sign). Wouldn’t it be cool if they made their seven-inch singles in an octagon shape? (The grooves still in a circle, of course.) For the bit of unused vinyl wasted, it would have been a great gimmick—people’d still be talkin’ ’bout that marketing folly/coup. Wait… maybe someone did do that? An exhaustive search (five minutes) on the internet, and I found a hexagon shaped record—so an octagon wouldn’t surprise me. STOP Records—outta Nashville—released a bajillion records (accurate count), so I’m guessing the idea came up at more than a few board meetings—and maybe they even did it. But I’ve spent too much time in this bar already.

Scott Walker “Scott 3”

Though I may have heard The Walker Bothers as a lad, I had no idea who Scott Walker was until I saw a documentary about him, a decade or so ago—which I’d like to see again—which led to me reading about him and listening to some of his music online. I noticed some things, such as he was from Ohio, had pop career, then started expanding his music in more interesting directions. He reminded me somewhat of Mark Eitzel, I guess, so that was exciting. Some of his later music is really experimental—not the easiest to digest on an empty stomach, but impressive in a formal way. I have never run across any of his albums in bargain bins (which is almost exclusively my way of obtaining vinyl), so I bought a new reissue of this one, called “Scott 3”—originally from 1969—and it’s a great record—it’s got a depth to it that’s immediately evident, that puts it among my favorites. It might take me years to even fully take it in, as it’s already changed a bit through a dozen listenings. I haven’t even begun to approach it lyric-wise—though some are immediately undeniable: “You’re like a winter night, your thoughts are frozen, you kiss your lovers in the snow. Too many icy tears glisten for someone. You watch the leaves as they shiver your loneliness, your eyes are lanterns growing dim…”

From the first song, “It’s Raining Today,” I’m fully caught up in it… (“The train window girl, that wonderful day we met, she smiles through the smoke, from my cigarette…”) It’s making me think about what I like about Richard Harris—though without the camp appeal (at least for me) of R.H., but with all the heaviness and weirdness. (I’m a huge Richard Harris fan, which has a lot to do with the songs by Jimmy Webb, so it’s the highest compliment.) The first ten songs are written by Scott Walker (credited to his original name, Scott Engel), followed by three Jacques Brel songs. I do like Jacques Brel a lot, and apparently so did Scott Walker—he’s a big influence—and the songs here are great—but the Scott Walker songs are even better. At any rate, I’m listening to it now like it’s a new love in my life. That’s really the best thing I can say about any music. Occasionally I’ll like a record so much I’ll come back to it and write a second review, and this might be one of those.

The album cover is a good one, too, a giant blown-up photo of an eye (which I’m a sucker for). Whose eye? Seeing how Scott Walker is reflected in the mirror of the pupil, I’d guess it’s a subject of one of the songs. (Wild guess: Big Louise.) The back cover is mostly taken up by a heavy cloud of words—credited to Keith Altham. Is it a poem? No, it’s liner notes, essentially—or closer to a poetic review of this record—much better than this one (you’re reading now). It takes the approach of appreciating the entire album as a literary work. The cover folds out as well, and inside are roughly eleven oval, sepia tone photos—one of Scott Walker, and the rest are illustrations for each Scott Walker song—along with an excerpted line or two—like they’re short stories from the 19^th century.

In many ways, the record feels much older than it is, as if it’s, to some degree, timeless. But also, everything about it seems like it could be an absolutely contemporary album—not one that came out in 1969. Also, because he kept doing music into his seventies, you picture Scott Walker as someone who aged into this brilliance and eccentricity. But looking at the dates, you realize that he was only in his mid-twenties when he made this album. Which is crazy—because this is a record that really sounds like the work of an older artist. Maybe he was always old—maybe he’s one of those people—you certainly hear that on the last long, “If You Go Away,” (a Jacques Brel song with Rod McKuen lyrics), which he takes over and makes us believe. On the other hand, maybe you have to be that young and audacious to be that emotionally out there.

A big part of why it’s all so good is that the orchestral arrangements are beautiful and intense, but also kind of weird—you might even say “off” at some points—I don’t mean accidentally—but bordering on experimental—not what you might expect. The music keeps you a little bit unbalanced, and one after another of the slow, melancholy orchestral numbers really keep the haunted mood. And there’s a lot of variety, too, of course, especially due to the theatrical Brel songs that take us to another world entirely. And then, “30 Century Man” is a concise and catchy folk pop number that manages to be completely baffling (and great) in a minute and a half. Amazingly, it all fits together. I guess I’m torn between wanting to isolate individual songs or just take the record as a whole, because the album works so well… isolating songs feels like it cheapens them. But it’s also impossible not to… even individual lines (“She’s a haunted house and her windows are broken.”) The song, “Big Louise,” for instance, is so beautiful, I just feel the need to point it out to the spectral companion in my room. (“Listen to this one!” I say.) “She stands all alone, you can hear her hum softly, from her fire escape in the sky. She fills the bags ’neath her eyes with the moonbeams and cries ’cause the world’s passed her by. Didn’t time sound sweet yesterday? In a world filled with friends, you lose your way.” I’d cry, myself, but I’m, you know, all outta tears.

Los Hermanos Castro “Los Espectaculares Hnos. Castro”

Everything I know about Los Hermanos Castro I just now read on the internet, and sometimes I think we’d be better off if we had to speculate until we could search out someone to get the info from in person. But here we are. Except for the name of the record company, there isn’t a bit of writing on this album cover that’s not in Spanish—and very little of that. I bought it, essentially, because of the odd cover, and also because I didn’t know anything about them. How mysterious the presentation—one of those album covers that looks like it may have been something else, then was covered with a full-size sticker of the new cover—which, in this case, is pretty bizarre. It’s mostly white, with what looks like purple ink randomly splattered on it. Somehow, the faces of the four band members have formed out of the splattered ink, and the album name is in white, across the biggest purple splotch. The back consists of some really messy collage work in a similar style, but here, black and white, overly busy, quite sloppy, and a little insane. It’s intriguing. There is also no English on the label—except for “RCA Victor”—and I suppose that’s how you’d say RCA Victor in Spanish. It’s that modern era, orange label with RCA in space-age letters. That got me sidetracked looking up the evolution of their label—they went from that really old-fashioned looking picture, fooling that poor dog with a gramophone—to the future—this orange label in 1968—maybe inspired by NASA? This record came out in 1969, and it’s a heavy vinyl—but not too long after this were those super flimsy records, but same looking label.

But that’s a digression. Well, the internet tells me this band kind of evolved from family member singing groups, in Mexico City, from the Fifties (and possibly still playing today, in some form). Then in the Sixties, this quartet became very popular, got lots of high-profile gigs in the US—New York, Vegas, etc.—and you can understand why—this record is pretty great—they are compelling, interesting singers, and they are doing stuff in all kinds of styles, but it all works together organically—it feels good to me. A lot of it is pop music, and really timeless—like I wouldn’t even be able to nail down a decade—it could be mid-last-century, or NOW. On the other hand, it sounds to me like jet planes, op art, and whiskey sours. I’m picturing the group dressing formally, even with bow ties, but audiences with big hair and striped pants. Most of the songs are written by members of the band, and they are very good. But there’s also some covers, including “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” on the second side—a fine version. The other reason I bought this record is because it has that song listed, and I’m curious to hear all covers of that crazy song, just because I’ve heard so many great renditions of it. There’s also a bit of a Mamas & Papas medley, including “California Dreamin’” and “Monday Monday,” which is kind of hilarious. It sounds good, really, but the “medley” aspect is cheesy—you can understand why people quit doing medleys outside of cornball Las Vegas—and now leave the medleys for cafeteria vegetables and swimming competitions. Again I digress. The bottom line is, this is an excellent record, one I’ll be putting on the next time I have a date over for Scrabble.

1910 Fruitgum Co. “Indian Giver” / “Pow Wow”

This 45, from 1969, is the most expensive record I ever bought. $5000. Which is kind of pathetic considering I don’t much like it anymore—and nice copies go for next to nothing, 50 years later. But it was my favorite record at the time—I’m guessing I was about 10 years old—and so I bought it from David G. No money actually had to change hands, since he owed me $5000. What did he owe me for? I don’t remember now, but I think it was about a bet. We used to bet hefty amounts over minor disagreements, but no one ever seemed to settle up. Actually, I do still feel a faint glimmer of that involuntary spine tingling you get from a musical hook—in this case, I think it’s merely the drums at the beginning of the verse—and to some degree the bass line (which was more hidden back in the days when my “hi-fi” was a cheap, plastic “Show ’n Tell” player). Also, I was captivated by the lyrics mentioning “Windy”—and I wondered if it was the same Windy immortalized in The Association hit a couple years earlier. I knew no Windy, but I did know a Wendy, and I might have had a crush on her.

That the song was offensive didn’t occur to me at the time. The term “Indian Giver,” of course, is useful to describe someone who gives you something and then takes it back—maybe someone could popularize a different term for that phenomenon that isn’t a negative stereotype of a group of people—say, “Reverse Gifter” (I realize that has no ring to it). That the song is also using the term to complain about a woman who “no longer puts out” is doubly offensive. And that the musical motif is based on a stereotyped version of a recognizable Native American music makes it triply offense. Still, maybe the whole thing is harmless enough, just kind of dumb. And certainly not worth five grand.

It’s amazing my copy still plays, seeing how I played it to death. It’s on the most psychedelic looking Buddah (sic) label. And it’s cracked all the way through, too, but I put a piece of scotch tape on the “B” side—so the “A” side still plays fine. Unfortunately, I was never able to play the “B” side, that I remember, and I would have remembered, I think. It’s called “Pow Wow,” but instead of another inane and offensive cultural rip-off, this song (I only know this since it’s on YouTube) is entirely pressed backwards! Apparently, the record company had some reason to do this—involving airplay—that seemed to make sense to them. The song that’s played backwards is called “Bring Back Howdy Doody”—that’s kind of a goofy pop number (I know because it’s on YouTube). Howdy Doody was a puppet—a cowboy character—who was on TV. So if you think about it, it’s kind of a brilliant move putting a backwards version of that song on the B-side of “Indian Giver.” I’m just now realizing this—that it’s somewhat clever, not just annoying. I really can’t remember if I listened to “Pow Wow” as a lad, and what I thought about it. I must have, but maybe I was just confused—but then, “confusion” was pretty much the baseline state of my entire childhood.

Leslie Uggams “Just to Satisfy You”

I remember seeing Leslie Uggams all the time when I was a kid—I believe she was on TV a lot. She must have been young—according to the big computer, she’s only 78 now—and she’s still doing a lot of acting. She was in Roots, for one, that was big one. On the back of this 1969 record, there’s a notice that says to watch the “Leslie Uggams Show” on Sunday night on CBS. I don’t recall that show—but I’m sure it’s in there somewhere, the old memory—because back then, we all knew all the shows. Sunday night, of course—there was a lot of competition—with Columbo, Disney, and homework. I saw this record used somewhere—I’d not seen any of her records that I can remember, lately, anyway. It’s got a striking cover—a pretty-close-to life-size portrait of her—looking out at us—with no—or at least, an unreadable—expression. She is wearing a very cool dress—we only see the neck and shoulders, but it’s striking. The back cover is a nice photo of Leslie U. reclined in the grass, somewhere—no horizon. There are so many leaves oddly scattered that you have to wonder if the art department scattered them, or if the art department failed to remove the leaves on purpose. Or if there was no art department. I like that we’ll never know.

There are some good songs on this record. Nice version of “Fly Me to the Moon”—which I always thought was called “In Other Words” (its original title—but I guess I’m showing my age, since it’s been recorded under the latter name like a million times). When I first heard “Just to Satisfy You” it reminded me so much of Nancy Sinatra, I had to look at the song credits to see if it was a Lee Hazlewood number—but it’s not—it’s by Waylon Jennings & Don Bowman. Fascinating. She’s got an interesting voice, with a lot of dramatic vibrato, I guess it is, at times, and then little-kid-like at other times. “Someone is Standing Outside” is one that goes so big, has so much drama to it—I probably would have guessed it was a Jimmy Webb song (it is). You could imagine Richard Harris singing it. There’s a version by Thelma Houston, and a version by Patti Austin. (I had to quick check and see if Uggams might be a city in Texas.) You no doubt know “In the Ghetto,” the Elvis version—I did not realize that song was written by Mac Davis. “That Old Sweet Roll (Hi-de-ho)” is a fairly heavy-duty Goffin-King number. “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” is as familiar to me as my first girlfriend’s phone number—but who did that song? Oh, okay, Jackie DeShannon—I missed that on the pop quiz. It looks like there are a LOT—and some ODD—covers of that song. I’ll have to put on a “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” Marathon—sometime soon—and play them all. I’ll be sure to include Leslie Uggams and Leonard Nimoy.

The Fifth Dimension “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In” / “Don’tcha Hear Me Callin’ to Ya”

This may be another one of the first 45’s I owned as a lad, as it came out in 1969—from the 1968 musical Hair—and the movie Hair, which came out in 1979—though I don’t recall seeing it at the theater, at the time—but I remember it being a big deal. I’m sure this smooth, mini-medley helped me swallow my overly dry raspberry Pop Tarts, while trying not to miss the bus for grade school. This may be the first instance of me being aware of the concept of the “medley” in music (previous to this, I was appalled by the “vegetable medley” that was often a part of school lunch). I don’t remember being confused by the subtitle, “The Flesh Failures”—but I am now. Also, I was conscious of being a Capricorn, but missing Aquarian status by a mere hour. I realize now that has nothing to do with “The age of Aquarius”—though what that actually means is still beyond me. I do think there will come a time when we (humans) treat each other with love and understanding—and why not. But, it seems, we’re not there yet—it’s beyond frustrating. The B-side, “Don’tcha Hear Me Callin’ to Ya,” is a great song, written by Rudy Stevenson—not totally familiar to me, but kind of—I’m sure I listened to this when I was a kid—but I haven’t heard it non-stop since—though maybe I have heard it quite a bit—like in the dance clubs I frequented right up to the day I stopped dancing. I kind of remember seeing The Fifth Dimension on TV during this time—though they didn’t make as big an impression as the Rolling Stones, Sly and the Family Stone, or David Bowie. They did a lot of music by a variety of songwriters—I think much of it was too mature for me at that time. I always loved the label on this 45—it’s from Soul City—nice asymmetrical design, and logo of a guy singing—a high-contrast yellow and black square. The internet tells me that Johnny Rivers founded the label. Who is the guy in the picture? Perhaps my readers will inform me!