Sammi Smith “Help Me Make It Through the Night”

The astute reader (of this blog) (is there such a person?) will note that I reviewed Sammi Smith’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night” Mega Records LP on March 19, 2021—and I just went back and read that one (I rarely embarrass myself by deliberately re-reading my old shit)—and I can live with that write-up—in fact, I’ll even recommend it. So why am I reviewing it again? Well, it’s not the same record. As far as I know, there might be any number of her records with that title, seeing how if you have a big country song hit (the title song in question), they’ll repackage it and resell it for as long as there’s good ol’ boys, truck-stops, and honky-tonks. The label is Hilltop/Pickwick, who I guess re-released budget versions of popular records, which you’ll be able to keep finding until the end of time (or as long as there are antique and thrift stores). So how are these records different, and which one is better? First of all, the one I’m writing about now has a blue cover with a pixilated (TV image, or unintentional sci-fi holographic image) portrait of Sammi Smith that is quite beautiful. Seeing how these budget re-releases are often half-assed in the art department, it’s like someone got really lucky—or what I like to imagine—someone really cared. The back cover has four nice black and white photos of her. It’s one of those records where the back cover is literally a big sheet of paper that appears to have been glued on a bit too wetly—or maybe someone has spilled beer on it.

Both are 1970, or ’71 (depending on the release)—and I’ll refer to the other one as Mega and this one as Hilltop—and hope that doesn’t sound too much like a monster truck grudge match. Well, they are close to the same record—they have five songs in common, including the title song, and what was originally the title song (before “Help Me…” became such a big hit, I guess)—which is a great song called “He’s Everywhere.” I’m not kidding—it would be the best song on any country record it appeared on (possibly including this one, depending on how passionate you are about the Kristofferson). “He’s Everywhere” was written by Gene Dobbins and Jean Whitehead—who I know nothing about (after a fruitless five-minute internet search). Well… there’s this tidbit: On an early 1970s David Bowie US tour, goofing on the tour bus, Mick Ronson came up with an “iconic” riff—to which Bowie replied, “What can I sing to that, mate, ’sides ‘I’m a man,’ etc.?” At which point Sammi Smith’s “He’s Everywhere” came on the radio (they were in the South). After stopping at a payphone to call the radio station, Bowie discovered the singer’s identity, as well as the name of the songwriting duo, which was the seed of the lyrics to “The Jean Genie.” Believe it or else. You heard it here first, folks. But anyway, I simply like to imagine them as a Nashville songwriting team who, after a long, successful session, would stop in a diner together and get greeted as “Jean and Gene.”

So, anyway, not the same record. The Mega has six songs not on this one (including “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down”)—but also, this one (Hilltop) has four songs not on the Mega, including a couple really fine ones—“Isn’t It Sad” and “Then You Walk In.” I mean, they’re all good, but those two are killer (and I’m assuming are on other Sammi Smith records, but I’m not going to look it up). The Hilltop is shorter (only nine songs) and no liner notes—so, if I had to recommend one, I’d go with the Mega. But why not just buy both? They printed a lot of these records, so you can easily find them (they’re the easiest Sammi Smith LPs to find)—and they shouldn’t be a lot of money. I can tell you, right now, where to find this one (the Hilltop) (as well as the other, for that matter) for $3 each—if you’re in Milwaukee—Clocktower Antiques, 1134 S. 1^st Street—the second floor, the guy who’s got a ton of $3 records—in the “Country” section. Actually, my copy (I’m listening to it now) really does sound like someone spilled beer on it—it’s a little scratchy—so I might beat you over there and buy myself a second copy.

John Phillips “John Phillips (John, The Wolfking of L.A.)”

This is one of those records that just sits out there by itself—don’t really know what to do with it—well, I put it on the turntable a lot—I haven’t gotten tired of it yet. I guess it would go in my “desert island crate”—if I’m allowed a crate (on the S.S. Minnow). Every song is really good—John Phillips is a great songwriter. It’s essentially a country record—with the Wrecking Crew, some country legends, and great backup singers—in the studio. It’s one of those that I prefer to listen to as a whole rather than as a collection of songs—but if I had to isolate one, the sing-a-long, “Holland Tunnel” is the one I’d put on every mix tape—if I still made mix tapes. This is a record where I’ll buy an extra weed-saturated copy whenever I find it, intending it as a gift—but then decide I need a “backup.” Also, you’ve got to consider the gift thing, because with John Phillips, there’s a lot going on. You need little more than the internet to read some pretty awful stuff about him—which may or may not be true—so, you’ve got to decide yourself if your eyes are bigger than your stomach—or something—wrong metaphor—if you can stomach even the rumors. I read some of his autobiography, Papa John (1986), and there’s a part where he said he left members of the Rolling Stones to babysit his kids while he went into town to score drugs. I don’t know if it’s worse to admit something like that or brag about it, but besides being kind of funny, and horrifying, pathetic, (maybe charming?)—it gives you a taste of an unimaginably exotic and messed up world. So it’s up to you, the listener (and reader—you don’t have to read this) how you want to spend your money and time. The money’s not going to him (he died in 2001), or the label—it might be $3 going to your local used record store.

The other thing, for me, is even more imaginary—something about John Phillips’ image over the years, as a larger than life character, rock star, what have you. I am a big fan of the Mamas & the Papas—though I wasn’t when I was a kid. I don’t know when that happened. I guess some of their songs somehow managed to stay fresh for me—even after hearing them a thousand times. (See: Chungking Express (1994).) They were a fascinating band. I’m spellbound by any old, live (or fake live) footage I come across. Mama Cass was the real star of that band—but it cracked me up how John Phillips seemed to be trying to disappear, hide behind an acoustic guitar, despite being a head taller than the rest of them and wearing some nutty fur hat to accentuate that. Then, later images of him, you can imagine the personification of the creepy old hippie. But this record (1970)—somewhere in between—strikes me as kind of the pinnacle of his recording career—him at his best. Did he feel that way? And how much of the sordid stuff is just Hollywood-style conjured image? Probably a lot—but the back cover of the record—a photo of him on the beach with a demonic grin, sporting a top hat and fur coat, and looking just really dirty—horrified me and fascinated me to a degree that I attempted to write a short story about it. I planned on placing it as the last story in a book of stories—and I attempted to draw (with oil crayons) a version of that photo on the back album cover—intended for the back of my book. I ended up rejecting the story—not sure why—it didn’t work. But it occurs to me now that that story is why I’m getting the nagging feeling that I’ve written all this before. So, no, I’m not high, and it’s not déjà vu. And, okay, I’ll admit it—it’s my favorite record.

Tommy Roe “We Can Make Music”

As big a fan of Tommy Roe as I was, when I was nine, I have no idea why I didn’t search out any of his other records. Maybe that was a concept that I didn’t really understand at that time. There was no internet, of course, so where exactly would you go to check out someone’s discography? When did I even first learn that word? Tommy Roe’s first records (singles) came out in 1960—the year I was born—and he’s still with us! Not a ton of records—but a ton of hits! I probably got the single, “Dizzy” when it came out in 1969, and followed that with his 1970 retrospective LP—and then I didn’t buy anything by him until recent years. This one is from 1970, and it’s excellent—I wish I would have bought it when I was ten. The album’s opener, the first lines that are sung: “Come on Julie, touch me with your fingers,” would have freaked me the fuck out. (It’s personal.) The album cover is the kind I particularly like—an actual photograph in a real place—someone’s backyard, it looks like—Tommy Roe wearing a tux, posing with a big ol’ dog. Not a lot of info, but one clue as to why it’s (and Tommy Roe’s hits are) so good—among musicians thanked: Hal Blaine, Joe Osborne, Larry Knechtel, and others… Wrecking Crew. All the songs are okay, but particular standouts are: “The Greatest Love” (Joe South),“Traffic Jam” (Roe and Mac Davis), “Pearl” (Roe and Freddy Weller), “King of Fools” (Roe), a nice version of “Close to You,” and my favorite on the record, “Stir It Up and Serve It” (Roe/Weller)—a very groovy culinary-metaphor number (I’m always a sucker for those).

100 Proof (Aged in Soul) “Somebody’s Been Sleeping in My Bed”

I grabbed this album—beat-up as it is—because I had no idea what it was—the cover is a photo of a bird nest with an egg (looks like a chicken egg) with a red question mark on it. Meaning? I have no idea, but considering the record’s title—when that egg hatches, will it be my offspring or this joker who’s been sleeping in my bed? On the back cover the nest is empty, and there’s a dead bird—kind of ominous. The label is Hot Wax—there’s a funny cartoon drawing with a flaming turntable and melting letters logo. My copy looks partially melted—it’s a little warped, the edge ragged, and beat to hell—but it still sounds great. Apparently the band was from Detroit—only released a couple of albums—this one from 1970. I bet I heard a couple of these songs on Motor City AM radio at the time.

The title song has a good funk groove and some great lines, like: “Cigarettes in the ashtray, and I don’t even smoke.” Kind of alternates between mellow soul and energetic funk—lots of fun songs. “One Man’s Leftovers (Is Another Man’s Feast)”—can’t go wrong with that title. “I’ve Come to Save You” is a standout—a really pretty number. “Ain’t That Lovin’ You (For More Reasons Than One)” starts off with spoken dialogue—a smooth talker trying to seduce a woman—followed by some ultra-smooth soul singing—a lovely song. Then we return to them in the middle of the song—he’s still trying—and then even lovelier (if that’s possible) verses, chorus, bridge. It’s an epic. And then, finally, at the end of this very, very long song—it sounds like he’s worn her down. It’s a little disconcerting, honestly, but also a pretty great song. Another good one is “Too Many Cooks (Spoils the Soup)”—a sentiment that holds especially true if one of those cooks is sleeping in your bed.

Laura Nyro “Christmas and the Beads of Sweat”

I’m continuing my project of writing about all the Laura Nyro records—I mean, of course, when their number comes up. I believe I’ve written about one, so far—I should re-read what I’ve written, so I don’t repeat myself, but I’m not going to—I’m not lookin’ back, baby. I am, however, taking my time. Her records, I feel, are like certain food—let’s say, Marmite, which is excellent and cool, but if you start putting in on everything from toast to eggs, rice, potatoes, and what have you—even popcorn… it might well turn on you. I don’t think I mentioned seeing that David Geffen documentary somewhere. The most interesting part, for me, was the part about his working with Laura Nyro—it sounded like he was her biggest fan, maybe obsessed with her even, and then (as I’m remembering) she kind of abandoned him and went with Columbia records. I found it pretty heartbreaking, and it gave me a soft spot for Geffen. But you can’t blame someone, either, for signing with Columbia, no matter who they are—that’s like a lifetime goal. (Though personally, as far as surface aesthetics go, Columbia is my most dreaded label.)

I have the desire to not approach this record song by song, even though there are lyrics on the back—rendered in a font called “Barely Legible Diary”—I’m just kidding, but it could be true. Of course, it’s possible, seeing how this was 1970, that they were actually written out by someone. It could even have been Laura Nyro. At any rate, I am making a decision not to listen to the entire record while following along with lyrics. Honestly, with most music I halfway ignore lyrics. I don’t think I could understand very much of what Laura Nyro is singing, just listening, because she really abstracts the words—and I like that. But I feel like reading along takes away from what she’s doing with her voice—even to the extent of trading in intellectual meaning for emotional meaning—so I’m choosing to ignore the written words, for now. I have however, read and understood enough to know they’re about seasons, nature, God, and love, and are in some cases overtly political. Maybe for another time.

As far as the songs go, I like to take this record as side one, then side two, like those are song suites. They aren’t, but they do flow together almost as if that’s the case. Apparently, it’s different musicians on side one and side two—so I presume different recording sessions. The one song not written by Laura Nyro is “Up On the Roof,” the Gerry Goffin/Carole King song that was a hit for The Drifters—well before my time, but I’ve heard it done by quite a few people. It’s a great song, and this is a fine version, and being at the end of Side One, it reinforces the idea of the two sides being like two acts in a show. Seeing how the album is named “Christmas and the Beads of Sweat,” one is inclined to pay closer attention to the second-to-last song, “Beads of Sweat,” but sadly it’s my least favorite song on the record. Not that it’s terrible, it’s fine, especially in album context—but it’s just too upbeat and jaunty for me, and I don’t like the guitar. The following number, and last song on the record, the X-mas one, titled, “Christmas in My Soul,” is very nice, a long, slow one, perfect to close out the record.

I particularly like the song, “Upstairs by a Chinese Lamp,” which I heard somewhere and got kind of obsessed with. I have no idea why. It’s a lovely, atmospheric song, for sure, even kind of diaphanous and hard to put a bright light on because on closer examination it’s like mist, and it dissipates. But in this case, for me, that’s a good thing—I like that about this song. I heard an instrumental version somewhere—I don’t remember, maybe it was a jazz artist—maybe before I heard this one. That might have been what got me hooked on the song. In fact, it might have led me to Laura Nyro. A couple of other favorites are, “When I Was a Freeport and You Were the Main Drag” (great title), and “Blackpatch” (a really catchy pop song).

Oh, and the album cover I love—one of my favorites. I assumed it was a drawing, but when I look at it more closely, I’m convinced it’s a photo that’s blown up and degraded. Maybe it’s a process I don’t know. (It’s credited: “Cover portrait by Beth O’Brien.”) Anyway, it’s quite lovely and haunting. I always assumed the little flower earring was colored red by a previous owner, but since seeing other copies, I realized they just made it look that way—and really pulled it off. I have a version, as well, without the album and artist name on the cover. No words whatsoever on the cover, which is impressive. The copy I have, with the record marks, and age, dirt, and some stains, just becomes more beautiful.

Scholastic Records “The Haunted House”

I continue to use a random system to pick records to write about, but I chose this one a few weeks ago and put it off until Halloween—why not! The full title of this Scholastic Records mini–EP is “Selections from THE HAUNTED HOUSE and Other Spooky Poems and Tales.” Read by Paul Hecht and Carole Danell. It came out in 1970. Between the two sides there are 11 tracks in just under 13 minutes. I guess this could be called “spoken word”—though, the performances are very “theatrical”—so each monologue is more of the feeling of a radio play. I wonder who came up with that term “spoken word?” Maybe the same person who came up with “non-fiction” and “outsider art” and the McDonald’s “Fry.” I guess I had this 7-inch EP as a lad, which is why I still have it—I think the cover was my favorite part—but that’s gone. I wasn’t overjoyed with this record as a 10-year-old, but it’s something you really have to listen to. It’s poetry, literature, some hifalutin’ and some fairly pedestrian. It appeals to me more now, just because it’s an oddball. I don’t remember being exactly thrilled to death with that “Chilling Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House” LP—that you still see in thrift stores—either. The Halloween stuff has gone overboard in recent years, but I guess I still feel it’s somewhat healthy—just making some good times out of horror and death. My favorite is still “The Great Pumpkin”—it’s really tragic it’s no longer on broadcast TV—it was like a 50-year tradition for me. Shame on the greedheads who thought it would be a good idea to keep it from people who can’t afford their bullshit streaming service.

Crabby Appleton “Crabby Appleton”

I bought this record because I’d never heard of Crabby Appleton, and it’s a great album cover—five longhaired white guys who look very 1970 are in a narrow brick alley in front of a dilapidated mansion. The bricks are painted green, and they’re sitting on some steps—the foremost of which is art department graffitied the name of the band (and their debut album), as well as the awesome Elektra logo. My copy has a “Crabby Appleton” semi-circle logo stickered over the top of the mansion—which actually looks pretty natural there. Also, a promo copy/not for sale sticker. I’m impressed by the amount of debris in the alley—it looks less art department-like, and more like no one had a broom—there’s broken glass, sticks, paper bags, a Campbell’s Soup can, and the best, a crushed Cap’n Crunch, Crunch Berries box. It’s fairly obvious the principal guy in the band is the one in the center, looking like a high school age Jimmy Page—it’s Michael Fennelly, the singer, guitarist, and songwriter. But the one I especially like is the guy with the glasses—he has a quality that like to call “Speenish”—in that he’s a little goofy-looking, and very much of his time. At first, I could only assume the band was named after him! He kind of resembles that one guy in Jefferson Airplane—so I immediately assumed this was a Bay Area band, but they’re from LA. I had to look up each name before I found out who was who. The conga player/percussionist, who is apparently Cuban, has the great name, “Flaco Falcon.” It turns out the Speenish guy is named Phil Jones, and he has the best resume of anyone in the band—he played with an impressive list of big names, including Tom Petty.

I’m not crazy about this record, but I still might put it on from time to time. Since there’s a keyboard player, you know ahead of time you’re going to be inundated, at some point, with that Hammond organ sound—and yes, it creeps in like the salty sea taking over a sinking ship. I mean, it’s okay, but Hammond should be used like a dangerous spice, and it wasn’t always, in that era. The percussion is compelling, throughout. There are only a few instances where you get the sense that the guitar leads were overdubbed with deadly obviousness. It’s overall, a pretty upbeat, but mellow, record with the best intentions. Apparently, they recorded a second record called “Rotten to the Core!”—and that was it for Crabby Appleton—maybe they’d run out of apple puns. One more observation I had was that I’m not in love with any of the songs—they are okay, but I wonder what kind of stuff they covered. I wouldn’t usually say this, about most bands, but I get the feeling I would have liked this band more in a live setting, at least of they stretched out and  jammed for longer spells—just because they sound to me like someone who might be able to fall into a nice groove—the percussion really helps with that. But I’m just guessing. I’ll look for some live stuff on the big internet, but I’m not expecting I’ll find much.

Simon & Garfunkel “Bridge over Troubled Water”

I guess I was never a huge fan of Simon & Garfunkel, really, and I don’t know that much about them, considering their popularity and fame. It’s interesting looking some stuff up now… I guess I thought of them as a Seventies band, yet this record from 1970 was their last (not counting like a hundred compilations and boxsets, etc., you know, cashing in). I feel like I know more about each of them from their movie appearances, especially Art Garfunkel’s really interesting film roles. I was almost too young for them—I didn’t realize they played together even in the Fifties—if the first paragraph of their Wikipedia is accurate (and it might not be). It says they were called “Tom & Jerry”—but we all know Tom & Jerry is a cartoon with a cat and, I think, a raccoon. And/or also a cocktail consisting of scotch, branch water, and squid ink. The album cover plays up their height disparity, which I also always thought was manufactured—and the internet (great for celebrity height stats!) tells us neither of them played for the Knicks. But they are actually pretty close in height, if you don’t count Garfunkel’s perm, in which case there is a big difference. Paul Simon and Chevy Chase, however, are a full foot apart, which they play up in the video, “You Can Call Me Al”—which has the distinction of being my least favorite music video EVER. I really do hate that thing with a passion—maybe even more so because they could have done it as a fake ventriloquist act, which would have been brilliant, but they totally missed the boat.

I’m getting sidetracked. In a way, it doesn’t surprise me that they broke up after this record because it’s really kind of bad. I’ve never listened to it in its entirety before now. The very famous and overplayed title song is way overblown and doesn’t measure up to that great, earlier “Sound of Silence” stuff. I feel like I was aware of “The Boxer,” by name, forever, and only now put it together with that really annoying “Lie-la-lie” song, which I’ve always hated—okay, so one more mystery solved. I guess I also never knew that the really annoying “I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail” song is called “El Condor Pasa”—which is one they stole and turned into an earworm. I also didn’t realize that Paul Simon has all the songwriting credits, and they are both almost the same age (80 this year). Someone could make a great movie—maybe even starring them, at 80—about a Sixties folk duo—a tall guy who got all the women and a short guy who got all the royalties, and now lives in a palatial LA mansion while the other guy is homeless and single. They’ve been mortal enemies for years, but hook up again, over some kind of crisis where they actually help each other, somehow. Heartwarming!

Still getting sidetracked. So, I actually am a huge fan of Simon & Garfunkel, to some degree, as I love the songs that are in “The Graduate” (which could be a rare case of a movie and the songs featured in it being nearly of equal importance to each other—i.e., neither one would be quite what it is without the other). I never get tired of either that movie or those songs. I did have a 45 of “Mrs. Robinson” in the Sixties, and I also had a 45 of “Cecilia”—from this record, which I loved and played to death. I barely remembered that “The Only Living Boy in New York” was on the other side (I think), but I like that song as well—it’s my favorite number on this album. A funny thing is that I was writing something recently (OK, a novel) in which I talk about the song “Cecilia” and how I was always confused and disturbed by something in the lyrics. I’m not going into it now, for God’s sake, I already suffered though that once (it’s totally convoluted), but if I ever finish and publish that novel, my obsessive observations will see the light of day and be ignored by billions. Going on and on here, sorry—I promised to make these reviews shorter. But I’m still thinking about that movie—I doubt if those two guys would act in it, but who could we cast? I’m thinking Tom Waits and John Lurie—who wouldn’t want to see them together in a movie again? What is it called? I always like to have at least a working title. Maybe, “Tom & Lurie.” Yeah, that’s pretty good—almost playing themselves—two of the funniest men on Earth. I’ll get started on the screenplay. I keep trying to get out of the movie business, but they keep pulling me back in!

Gene Ammons “Brother Jug!”

I’m not sure where I came upon this record, but it’s another one from 1970! I hadn’t listened to much Gene Ammons, a Chicago jazz tenor sax player, and my impression of him was a bit off, and putting this on was one of those happy surprises. The first song, “Son of a Preacher Man,” is high energy and pretty funky, heavy on organ (Sonny Phillips) and wah-wah guitar (Billy Butler). The next song is more what I expected, a kind of tenor sax heavy, slower number—but it sounds very familiar, and I realized it’s “Didn’t We,” by Jimmy Webb—which a lot of people have covered (most notably, for me, one of my favorites, Richard Harris). Six songs, all really good—two by Gene Ammons. They alternate, fast slow, fast slow—the second slow one is a very nice version of “Blue Velvet.” It’s kind of pointless to categorize the music by name—I suppose Soul works best. A few of the songs—or all of them, really—sound like they would work well in Seventies movies—though they might overshadow all but a great movie. Bernard Purdie plays drums on most of the songs—excellent, of course, as is Bob Bushnell on bass. The final song has a different lineup, and includes Junior Mance, piano, and Candido, congas. Looking at my internet, there’s a bit about Gene Ammons—he died fairly young, and was imprisoned twice, for narcotics (the second time for seven years), yet he released a ton of records—I’m not even going to count (no less than six have “Jug” in the title). Also, he was known as “The Boss,” so that makes at least three “The Boss’s” (if you include yours truly). I am definitely going to keep my eye out for more Gene Ammons records—if any are half as good as this, I’d be happy.

The Kinks “Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround, Part One”

SO, I was sitting here on a Thursday afternoon listening to a digital version of this record, thinking what a fucking really great record this is—and have I written about this on the DJ Farraginous site yet? I think I have it, because I can picture the well-worn album cover. So I looked it up, and… no I hadn’t. Maybe I didn’t have it after all—maybe it was one of the records that I tragically lost during my last move. Well, regardless, it was time to pick a record to write about, using a random number generator, and then looking up the record on a spreadsheet where I have all of my records listed (a piddly 500 or so, lest you think I’m a spreadsheet wizard or anything). And believe it or else, the number picked THIS record—which I did have after all! What are the odds? (Well, 500 – 1.) You can’t make this stuff up. Well, you could, but in that case I’d say something more outrageous, like I was at Starbucks and saw Ray Davies in the queue, ordering a double Chocaccino with oat milk or something.

The cover is one of the low-key classics—it looks like a guy drew it in high school science class. It opens, however, and there’s even more of this “art”—but also the lyrics, in a 1970s font called “eyestrain.” But yes, this is yet another record from 1970—is it weird I keep picking out records from 1970? At some point I’ll use my spreadsheet wizardry to figure out just how many records I own from that magical year. It starts out with a verse of straight country & western—but it’s a fake-out intro—not that it would be terrible to have a straight C&W record by this band—and they are essentially a country band—just a smart one—and also, a pop band, and a rock band, and a punk band. This is just a great record from start to finish. There may be few songs I don’t like as much as other songs, but in that case I listen to the lyrics. The catchy songs are so catchy that I couldn’t care less if they were singing about snaking out the sink or something—maybe they are.

I am, of course, playing my trashed vinyl copy, now, and it sounds pretty much like the perfect idea of what a record should sound like. No matter all the scratches and noise—it’s so present I can smell the bass player’s aftershave. “Lola” is one of those songs I should be so sick of I never want to hear it again—seeing how I’ve heard it one million times. It was the first Kinks song I was ever aware of. Yet, it’s such a good song, every time I hear it I pay attention—it surprises me even. On this listening of the whole record there was one odd moment that struck me. In the song “Top of the Pops” there is one of the laziest guitar solos I’ve ever heard. That’s the best way I can describe it—lazy. Yet for all its laziness, it’s somehow just totally sublime. Then it occurs to me what I’ve always liked about the Kinks and never put into these words—the quality I love is their laziness. This is both incredibly obvious and shouldn’t be taken the wrong way—like, as how much I think they sweat or care—which is something else altogether. Nor do I mean effortless. Nor do I mean relaxed. It’s a quality of sound, you know it when you hear it—laziness. It’s a good thing—there’s probably versions in all music of all time. I could cite examples, but I’m not going to. I’m sure someone said this better than I, too. I could look it up, but I’m too lazy.