Here’s a single from 1971 that really does look like they sent it on that first rocket to Mars, left it blow around out there for a while, then brought it on back with some rocks and whatnot. How did it get in this condition, and why do I have it? I had the LP, Harmony, when I was a kid and trashed it beyond playability, but this Martian 45 still plays, though barely. I remembered writing about “An Old Fashioned Love Song” on this website—so I looked it up—a review of a greatest hits record back in 2018 (the review was from 2018… the record from 1974—but why does 2018 now seem as far back as 1974—or even 1758 or so?) Anyway, I knew I’d write the exact same thing—how something lyrically always bugged me about that song (toward the end), but still, it’s one of my favorite songs of theirs (written by Paul Williams) and hearing it, even now, is, for me, pure Hostess Cupcake Jonny Quest Cedar Point Funhouse Fanta Red Cream Soda Nostalgia. The B-side, “Jam” is an up-tempo R&B jam with a lot of “feel all right,” repetition, and Hammond organ. Where would the world be without that Hammond organ? It’d be like Mars, with shallow swimming pools.
Posts Tagged ‘1971
John Sebastian “The Four of Us”
I remember buying this as a young teen, I believe at the mall record store (not this copy—but I remember the abstract cover like it was yesterday). I’m not sure if, when I bought it, I was already familiar with John Sebastian from seeing him on TV, either solo or with the Lovin’ Spoonful, singing “Do You Believe in Magic”—hugging that autoharp—which was the nerdiest thing I’d ever seen. But also really cool, in a way, and kind of exciting, because when we started our first band, in 1972, the only instruments we had available to us were the piano, the autoharp, and a gong (as well as improvised percussion). I always thought of him as one of those annoying hippies with glasses (as opposed to annoying hippies without glasses)—but still liked him. I remember thinking this album seemed about half dumb and half compelling—and that’s about how it sounds to me now—though likely different parts are dumb and compelling. The styles are all over the place, but that’s what you get from someone with a lot of influences who gets to indulge a little. When I was 13 or so, I suppose I liked the blues stuff best, but now my favorite song is “I Don’t Want Nobody Else”—just because it’s a particular kind of dated pop song that appeals to me now. Funny, because I’m pretty sure it was my least favorite song on the record, back then—but now I really like it. Just a simple pop song, a little melancholy, very pretty.
Side Two is presented as one song, “The Four of Us”—though, of course, it’s a “suite” of very different songs—but it’s kind of a loose travelogue about these four hippies traveling in a truck, four of them, two men, two women—and I’m pretty sure I got the impression that there was a bit of “swapping” going on—which made me feel gross, back then. It makes me feel gross now, as well—though I don’t think there’s anything in the lyrics to support this—I must have been reading into it, just because of my biases about hippie culture, free love, and all that. On the way, then, they’re meeting some characters, and that gets old, so then they head down to the islands for a bit (steel drums and the like). Restless again, so it’s back, and to New Orleans, electric guitar, some partying, Dr. John and so forth. And then on the road again, a little melancholy, heading out west. Red Wing, Colorado—always my favorite—maybe I pictured that as how my life could have, and should have, progressed. The simple life—so simple that now there’s only two of them. Where did the other two go? But even that gets old, so it’s back to LA and, I guess, “Hollywood”—is LA home? Now it’s “more of us” (babies, I’m guessing, not just ferrets and dogs). Ultimately, as far as I can tell, it’s about the “love of a good woman.” And memories. Bit of lowkey ending there, but at least it’s happy. Had this been a movie of the era, it might have ended with drug overdoses, car accidents, and violence. Glad to hear John Sebastian’s still out there, and he’s still doing music and other show-biz stuff.
3.31.23
This song (“Brand New Key”) was one of those giant hits that you couldn’t avoid around when I was 11, I guess (1971), on the radio, on the TV. I always thought it was an annoying song, so I guess I didn’t pay much attention at the time (other than as I was forced to). I guess it never occurred to me until now that it’s not about roller skating at all, but sexual intercourse. That doesn’t make me like it any better. Then I heard it in a movie somewhere, maybe not so long ago, and I guess it struck a nostalgic note. Still, there’s nothing compelling about the song. How do some songs get to be giant hits like that? Who knows. How did I get this 45? Who knows. I did buy a Melanie album, fairly recently, just because it occurred to me that I was curious about her. When I get to that one, with the magic random number pick, I will look up more about her. I just read briefly that she’s only 75, now, and lives in Nashville. She had a lot of success at a really young age to deal with, I guess. This record label is interesting—“Neighborhood Records”—I never saw that before. I guess it’s a label started by Melanie, herself—and her manager, Peter Schekeryk, also the producer of this record. And also… they were married. I guess that’s a good example of putting that hit record to good use—your own label. The B-side—“Some Say (I Got Devil)”—I like a lot more—it’s a quiet, haunting song. Good lyrics, too: “I’m not in danger/but some have tried to sell me/all kinds of things to save me.”
I didn’t have any The Mamas & the Papas records as a kid—maybe I was too young—I heard the hits on the radio, of course—but it wasn’t until I was in my forties much older that I really started to like them—in part, because I could find all the records at thrift stores—and I bought all their records more or less at once and never really differentiated between them. Over time, I liked a few songs here, a few songs there, but never really got the album identity in my mind. What I’d like best is to make one LP from my favorite songs from their five studio LPs—which would be like my own personal greatest hits record. It’s funny, I noticed they have at least ten greatest hits compilations over the years (and I’m sure there are many more)—and I’ll bet anything none of them come close to containing my favorite songs (while including ones I don’t care for)—in fact they are probably all basically the same. How do I get the job of making the 2023 The Mamas & the Papas compilation record—based on my opinion alone?
The album cover pretty much looks like a record by a band that is no longer a band (which is the case)—and the art department tried as hard as possible for good feelings, but John Phillips looks so demented both on the front and the back cover—there is only so much an art department can do. On the other hand, how many young people buying this record were just plain attracted to the demented look? I really like this record even though it doesn’t have as good overall sound or performances as their earlier ones (I read that Cass Elliot was sick during recording this and couldn’t contribute that much, and I guess you really miss her singing). Anyway, the songs are good—all by John Phillips, except “I Wanna Be a Star”—by Michelle Phillips—and one of the better songs on the record—equaling John’s songs in creepiness. “Mr. Producer, don’t seduce her…” etc., and then: “…in your new production…” (production sung in a way that it may as well mean: “fucking, followed by human sacrifice.” Part of what I’ve always liked about The Mamas & the Papas is their kitschy side coupled with their creepy side. Here’s some examples: “…where a Dixie Cup becomes a chalice,” and, “I’m on my knees your majesty.” Other favorite songs are “Grasshopper”—just a dumb pop song, but really catchy—it’s about a woman who likes to get around, I guess, but has some minimal, but subtly creepy poetry. And “Blueberries for Breakfast” with line like: “Butterflies in my trousers—under the august moon.” And “I’m gonna have to call the cops if you don’t leave me alone. Stop waiting at the bus stop.” Then something about the FBI and CIA, and “I’ll cut you to the bone,” and some demented laughing. Something is not right with those blueberries.
Carly Simon “Anticipation”
I’m sure I heard the song “Anticipation” on the AM radio when I was 12 or so—over breakfast with my parents while eating the oats out of my Lucky Charms (saving the marshmallows for last)—and I probably had conflicted feelings, because it’s an undeniable pop-song that no one can resist, really—and only maybe rebel against in retrospect. I’m guessing it gave me goose bumps and made me feel in love—though I don’t remember associating it with the girls I had crushes on the way I did with Tommy Roe, Archies, and Partridge Family songs—but maybe because that was earlier—and this coincided with the beginning of adulthood (like I said, age 12). It was another song I first owned on vinyl via the “Superstars of the 70’s” record I bought via the TV, which was the first (and sometimes only) place I heard a lot of music during that time. “Anticipation” started off side 4 (of 8) and was followed by The Guess Who, Todd Rundgren, etc. Side 4 then ended with “Tumbling Dice”—a song that became my favorite song of all time, for a while (like 50 years). Anyway, I then followed Carly Simon’s career from a distance, I suppose, being an avid Rolling Stone reader—and I probably got turned off due to her immense popularity, and me exploring different musical directions. And of course, there was that Heinz Ketchup commercial, which got burned into your memory for all-time if you watched TV in the Seventies (I watched way, way too much). I think I probably loved that commercial and hated it. Maybe it was even the reason I for my love/hate relationship with ketchup.
I bought an odd Carly Simon record a couple of years ago, just because it wasn’t one I recognized, and I picked up this one, from 1971, recently, because I was surprised I didn’t recognize the cover—it’s a black and white photo that’s blue-tinted with an odd metallic process—I am curious about how it’s achieved—I feel like it might have been unusual at the time. Maybe not. Anyway, in the photo, she’s either opening or blocking a huge gate—you could read a lot into this—and I’m sure that’s what’s intended—say: “I’m attractive and I have cool things! Check it out! Welcome… come on in!” Or, perhaps, more or less the opposite message: “Uh… no. I don’t think so. Over my dead body.” Or maybe even something kinky or sinister (use your imagination). The “answer” photograph on the back cover shows her running through a garden, so… maybe I’m overthinking things, and the gate is just there because it’s the gate at the garden where they took the photo, and it looked cool. In which case they were not overthinking things.
It’s nice record. All songs but one are written or co-written by Carly Simon. “Share the End” is big, orchestral song—a little nutty, like something I like. A lot of the record is quiet, acoustic, pretty. I’m not focusing on the lyrics, maybe another time. For the most part, I don’t focus on lyrics, unless they really stand out, or I feel like there’s a reason to go back and engage in a lot of multiple listenings. I’m not alone there, I’m sure—but everyone is different—your approach to music. The last song on the record is “I’ve Got to Have You,” written by Kris Kristofferson, which is the other reason I came upon this record—I didn’t know that song, but heard Sammi Smith’s version, which is one of my favorite songs she does, so I looked up who else did it. This version isn’t as good, but that’s no criticism—no one is as good as Sammi Smith. It’s interesting, they were born the same year—though at this point, years, time, people’s ages, mean very little. Some are still with us, some aren’t—but these singers, whose voices come alive on this indestructible vinyl, will always be with us.
If YouTube keeps my personal stats on their big ’puter, and I’m sure they do, they could tell you the only video I’ve watched more than ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” is a live version of The Faces doing “Stay with Me” (the one in which some moron applies some unforgivable video effects to some of it). And that is (my opinion) that band at its best, and Rod Stewart at his best. Well, not quite—because Rod Stewart is at his best here, this record (well, if he’s made a better record, tell me about it). I consider myself a big Rod Stewart fan, even though I probably haven’t heard 90% of what he’s recorded—but just based on some Faces stuff and this record (and that “Hot Legs” video, come on). And this is one of my favorite rock records—of the many, many rock records I’ve heard. It’s also a record you can readily find, cheap, at used record stores and thrift stores—I guess they printed a lot, and for some reason the same people who buy up every, last, old “Dark Side of the Moon” LP don’t buy up this one, even though it’s equally as classic and twice as listenable.
The album cover is terrible, and if you, say, just ran across it for the first time, you might think it’s one of those cheapo retrospectives they sell at gas stations. I first heard it sometime in the Seventies—though not that close to 1971, when it came out. I suppose I’d heard the hit song “Maggie May” previously, but I didn’t know what to expect by the album—and this was a case of the first song just changing my molecules forever. I still get the same goosebumps anytime I listen to it now. And it’s not like the record, as a whole, even comes close to my favorite few songs, but it’s all at least pretty good. The Temptations hit, “(You Know) I’m Losing You” sounds a bit out of place, actually—I believe it’s essentially The Faces on that song—it’s a more rocked out version than the original—not as good. You can find The Faces playing it from the same session as “Stay with Me” (might have been a TV show). I mean, it’s okay, but it doesn’t fit that well. The Bob Dylan song, “Tomorrow is a Long Time,” is another weak link. The rest of the record is all pretty much awesome.
One of my favorite songs, Tim Hardin’s “Reason to Believe” is last, and it’s my favorite version of that song—which pretty much everyone (including me) has played—I found a list on the internet that sites nearly a hundred cover versions. “Maggie May” might be one you’re sick of, but in the context of this record, and on vinyl, and loud, you can really revisit that song. The Arthur Crudup song “That’s Alright Mama” is as high energy as anything on the record, and “Seems Like a Long Time,” by Theodore Anderson, is the most poignant song here—I’ve never heard any other version of it, but I can’t imagine it being better than this. I said poignant, goddamnit. And then that first song, the title song, “Every Picture Tells a Story”—it’s the best.
One thing that makes all these songs special is a kind of spare production—it’s clean and sparse, and relies on some individual instruments, and the singing. I’ve always liked Rod Stewart’s singing, but nowhere as much as here. A lot of the record, and certainly these first three songs, sound mostly acoustic—acoustic guitar, piano, and some really fine drums and bass. I don’t know who’s playing on what—lots of musicians are listed—but they’re all great. It’s just one of the more high-energy, subtle, underplayed but over-the-top records you’re ever gonna hear. Also, given the nature of the recording, this is one of those records that if you hear it on vinyl, and on a really fine system—well, I just can’t imagine. It’s one of those cases of, if I haven’t heard it in a while, and then someone pulls it out, on a superior sound system—that’s something that could put me right on the floor, reduced to a puddle of expletives and insufficient metaphor.
The complete title adds “with Professor Peter Schickele.” I like a wurst pun as much as the next guy, so I guess I bought this record in a weak moment—I’m sure the price was right, so I didn’t look too closely—which would have clued me in that it was not for me. But seeing how it’s April Fools’ Day today (which seldom falls on a Friday), I thought I should listen to it and write something—and generally put the blame on me. Though I find it unlistenable, I got through all four sides. I grew up listening to comedy records, but haven’t put one on, on purpose, in the last four decades—I just don’t like comedy records—and then, especially not live ones—and then, especially not when the applause is the loudest thing on the record. It gets a little better as it goes on—reminds me, with a tiny bit of nostalgia, of something like “A Prairie Home Companion”—which I don’t like either—but if this was on the radio, say on a Saturday morning, and I was a little drunk, I might warm up to it. But no. It reminds me more of going over to the house of a difficult to tolerate relative of someone you’re dating—and they pull out this record while you all have to sit around the living room with frozen smiles, and time seems to stop, and you’re just hoping for the dog to pee on the floor or a tornado or something. I’m sure much of the humor goes over my head, and that’s my problem, but on the other hand, I get fart jokes, but don’t think they’re funny. And do I need to mention the kazoo? My late friend, Keith Busch, once made a kazoo funny—but I really don’t think it’s ever going to happen again—plus, I was probably drunk, and remembering through a haze of nostalgia.
I found a Dory Previn record years ago, knowing nothing about her—still haven’t written about it, as its magic number has not yet come up. It was so unique—it didn’t occur to me that she might have half a dozen records out—which I’ll now keep an eye out for. I recently found this one, from 1971—and it sounds pretty timeless. It’s not that interesting to me, musically—her melodies are all a little similar, and the instrumentation is a little jaunty and not that unusual—most of the record sounds like you could imagine it on a stage in a staid, theatrical setting—even a little stuffy, a little formal, and might include costumes and maybe even puppets. I don’t mean to be as critical as that might sound (and there’s nothing wrong with puppets)! Really, I could listen to this stuff all day—and her singing is pleasant and clear, and it stands over the top of the music. The real interesting thing here, though, is the lyrics—so it’s necessary to listen to it a few times, and even follow along with the words on the inside cover—it opens up. There are two separate “suites”—it’s essentially a “double” record—but on one disc—so a short one. Side One is “Reflections in a Mud Puddle” and Side Two is “Taps Tremors and Time Steps.”
Okay—these are some heavy-duty, nutso songs—I mean that in a good way. There is quite a lot of social observation, and social commentary, without being too blunt or obvious about it. But the songs also seem to be highly personal. It’s hard to say how much each song is about her, the actual person, and how much she’s standing in as a character—but it’s an effective approach. I hate excerpting lyrics, because it’s not really fair to the lyrics or the song, but just to get an idea of what we’re dealing with, here’s a verse to mull over: “Mine was a bloodless death/not grim/not gory/more like/Ali MacGraw’s new enzyme/detergent demise in Love Story/neat and tidy/unlike Christ’s on Friday.” Nice. The second side is subtitled: (one last dance for my father)—and it seems to be about her father’s death—and of course, their relationship, which sounds pretty troubled—told as a series of natural and aeronautical disasters. Again, it’s subtle, and poetic—like both sides of this record—all somewhat disturbing, much of it dark—but told in a way that’s poetic and beautiful. One more thing: kind of hidden right in the middle of the second side is a song called “I Dance and Dance and Smile and Smile.” Maybe the most beautiful song on the record. And it’s actually quite straightforward, lyric-wise—and it’s totally heartbreaking.
As I’ve said before, it’s a lot more fun to write about stuff you don’t like than stuff you love. It’s a lot easier to write about stuff you’re making fun of. It’s hardest to write about things you love—that reverence mode kind of freezes you up, and there are only so many ways to say “awesome” and “awesome” isn’t one of them. Plus, when you sound like a cheerleader, a blurb writer, a publicist, or an advertising copywriter, no one listens, and why should they? So, I was thinking it was going to be fun to write about this David Crosby record—based on the title, which is funny already, and giant photos of his head on the front and back cover—you know, that 1971 maximum hair volume, and admittedly great moustache. The songs are all more or less his (plus some credits to some guests on this record). The cover opens up to faux-photo album of two dozen familiar names—most of the Dead and the Airplane, Joni, Nash, Young, etc. Also, David Geffen looking like he’s just fallen into a swimming pool. Also, interesting to me, a young woman with the name “Laura Allen”—who looks a lot like Laura Allan—I have a solo record of hers, with Paul Horn, where she plays zither—which I haven’t written about yet. I’m guessing someone in this crowd brought along something stronger than Diet Sprite. And that album cover—no words, text, whatsoever—just a grainy double exposure of what I presume is a sunset (West Coast) over water, and face (presumedly Crosby) blown up so big it looks like you could live in his right nostril and your ex-wife could life in his left and everything would be more or less cool.
But as soon as I put the record on, I was mesmerized to such an extent that I had to lie down to listen to it. For some reason, the impression you get is that all of the musicians were performing while lying down—and while that might be impossible with some (piano, for instance) I wonder if there isn’t something to that. This is one of the more mellow, laid back, trance-inducing things I’ve heard in a while. I don’t think I was sleeping, but when it got to the end of Side One, I was unable to take the needle off, and somehow it played the other side without me turning it over! After a little dinner, and a palate cleanser (Skeeter Davis, Richard Harris, and more sleep), I put it on again, and it’s like an entirely different record! So it’s clear to me that I’m enjoying this album much like one would, buying it new in 1971, as a fan. You go through this phase where you don’t want to do anything but put it on once again. You come home from school and put it on. It’s a relationship. Together, your brain and the vinyl transform, blah blah, all of that. Of course, when I was eleven, I think this might have been too subtle for me, my favorites being Alice Cooper, Sweet, Mott the Hoople, and so forth. There’s a song that sounds like it could be Crazy Horse, and one that could be an obscure CSN or CSNY track. And then one… who’s playing that steel guitar?—nice. Then one that sounds like it would be at home at a Renaissance faire. And then a song that sounds like nothing else on the record and is quite beautiful—is that autoharp? (my first instrument—so I’m partial to it). Another beautiful one with some serious piano—Gregg Rolie, perhaps? And then a couple that sound a little too much like blind monks living underground after the nuclear holocaust, but that’s okay, it rounds out what I’d have to say is a seriously awesome record.
Richard Harris “My Boy”
Until I heard “The Yard Went On Forever” (1968), I thought this (My Boy, from 1971) was Richard Harris’ masterpiece—but the immensity of that record in no way takes away from this one—a deeply romantic, mournful, and beautiful meditation on the soul searching journey of the most deplorable, pathetic species on Earth—yes, the man. I had heard this one first (I didn’t listen to these LPs when they came out, as a lad—I wouldn’t have cared for them them—you need to deliver a lot of pizzas to Hell and have your tires slashed to really get it). And indeed, this record isn’t for everyone—as evidenced by being able to actually find it in thrift stores (unlike say, “Dark Side of the Moon”—which I suspect either gets discovered by the grandkids, or people have it cremated with them; by the way, I’ll take this one, and what could be its companion piece, Frank Sinatra’s underrated 1970 masterpiece, Watertown). If one was to assess such an electronically recorded work of art merely by lyrical content, those close to me might be surprised that I like it at all. As a confirmed bachelor and an allegedly-not-a-father, I’m known to be somewhat allergic to musical themes like this. In that, I mean, a man addressing his young son—whether or not he’s old enough to know just exactly why things are rocky, at best. But the important thing here is—this is not merely a poem—it’s a collaboration—of songwriters, performers, arrangers, caterers, concept, songs, lyrics, music, and magic.
I wonder how this one came together? I will take a guess—given the credit: “Album Concept and Synopsis by Richard Harris”—is that he gathered together these 12 songs, envisioning them working together in a conceptual theme. (There is a little descriptive bit about each song on the back album cover.) As far as it all coming together, I can only imagine there was a studio, musicians, microphones, old codgers (you know, that age where you think you’re old—little do you know), and perhaps some whiskey. A lot of whiskey. It’s likely that all the songwriters weren’t in attendance—though Richard Harris was one, and producer, Johnny Harris, another. What I’m most curious about is the really young (at the time) genius songwriter Jimmy Webb. Each side starts off with a pair of his compositions (favorites are “Requiem” and “Sidewalk Song”— killer songs). But then, I’m generally curious about the relationship of Webb and Harris—seeing how they conjured a few records worth of underrated, difficult, and—I’ll enthusiastically proclaim—my favorite music. (I guess I still need to read Jimmy Webb’s book, The Cake and the Rain—I know I said this before). Anyway, it’s amazing how well this hodgepodge of songs comes together on this record. Some might find Richard Harris a little… theatrical—but I’m all for it. No one but him can sing a line like this—from the final song in the story (and my next favorite, after the Webbs) “This Is The Way”—“I’ve lost a few days in my time/Friends call it sleep, I call it wine.”
DJ Farraginous 
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