Ray Pillow “The Waitress” / “She Knows What Love Can Do”

A promo 45 on Mega Records from 1973. (On the Mega label, above the name, there’s a little graphic that I’m inclined to file as: “I have no idea what that is.” A window AC unit? But how would that make any sense? A robot? Hell if I know!) Anyway, a popular Nashville country & western singer, Ray Pillow (his real name!) passed away just a year ago. I nabbed this record sometime before that, knowing only that Ray Pillow is a great handle, and a song called “The Waitress” has got to be a classic—and hopefully includes coffee. Both of these songs might be on LPs— “The Waitress” is on his 1972 album, “Slippin’ Around with Ray Pillow.” (That is a great title.) “The Waitress” is an excellent song, corny as it is, with some really difficult rhymes (I mean, difficult in terms of degree of difficulty—but RP gives it go). And also, downhome wisdom—“She learned to be a waitress by sittin’ home waitin’ on me.” It’s an epic to be certain, and in 2:21, mind you. I mean, this song travels from Texas to Tennessee—and all the states in between, including the state of grace that can only be known by that angel known as… the waitress. That’s not an actual line from the song, but you get the idea. One can easily find both the lyrics and the song on internet—but I’ve just got to quote this one: “And her coffee tastes better ’cause she serves it with that married woman style.” Amazing. “She Knows What Love Can Do” is the slower one, a sad song, also about a woman who has been on the crap side of romance and love—but is he blaming “love” exactly? (See: title of this song, which is also the last line of the chorus.) Or her “lover,” essentially? Hard to tell—this song gets in and out in about 2:27—fastest I’ve ever been confused. But it’s a beautiful song, and that’s all that matters.

Stan Kenton & His Orchestra “7.5 on the Richter Scale”

This cornball Stan Kenton cartoon-album-cover cheapo masterpiece starts off with what sounds like a college marching band version of “Live and Let Die” (which every marching band in the country did, you recall, after that movie came out—despite the not very positive message of the lyrics). Still, I like it, as well as the ridiculous version of “Body and Soul” that sets me right in a movie set in Las Vegas. It’s all movie music, actually—the liner notes refer to “now” music (bordering on rock) (thus, the “earth shaking” reference). The datedness comes across as (to me) charming. “Down and Dirty” is a detective movie theme with a great bass part on top of which horn ridiculousness makes okay sense. If you can hear “Country Cousin” (a Gene Roland composition) without seeing 1973 mustachioed Burt Reynolds in tight pants, you’re too old (or too young). Their take on the Strauss (Zarathustra) is a weird one—as is, I suppose, every take on that oddball theme—it would be fun to rank them. All in all, this LP goes with my party records (as intended, I’m guessing)—I only wish I had a dedicated “Rec-Room” with a wet bar (whatever that is), a psychedelic mural, and blacklights. Hopefully the party would last much longer than the duration of this record, but “It’s Not Easy Bein’ Green” sounds like the mellowed to exhaustion climax, when people put their arms around each other and it seems okay (at least at the time). What to make of, then, that jaunty “Godfather” theme? Maybe it’s just a sequencing problem. Or maybe I’m wrong about the party. “Blue Gene” (another Gene Roland) is another movie, this time with that weirdo James Coburn. How does that guy seem to keep getting weirder, over time?

Hap Palmer “Movin’”

I bought this record because the cover said something to me (construction paper cutouts of coastal sunrise/set broken/reflected on the water). Also, the cover opens up—with some odd “movement” instruction inside (including what I mistakenly took as sexual innuendo). And because the price was right, no doubt, and it turned out to be another record from 1973 (my favorite year for records). But still, I didn’t expect much—I finally listened to it (dictated by the spectral planchette) and… the first song—whoa! That’s what I said, “Whoa.” It’s some kind of early fraggle-synth that hadn’t been invented yet! Who is this Hap Palmer? The internet says he’s an old dude with an acoustic guitar—digging deeper, he’s a composer who put out about 50 educational records, and this one is about “movement.” There’s a lot of musicians on it, including Jim Gordon, which the Big I tells me is not drummer Jim Gordon who played with everyone, but the other Jim Gordon who played everything. The world is unforgiving! The world is forgiving! Anyway, I was thinking—what else is about movement? Dance parties! Which gave me the idea to try to get a DJ gig where I’d only play this record (along with a few other tasty tidbits, of course). There are a lot of DJ gigs available, lately, because people need to listen to something while sampling the thousands of craft beers, and radio has crossed the line—over 50% really annoying ads. So, to give you an idea of the mood at my DJ nite, I’ll describe the mood you’ll be “movin’” to—song by song:

“Funky Penguin”—it’s the theme song for the marshmallow-heads, the mailman, the queen, the drunken cop, and our hero, Hairless Pal, and they’re all doin’ the Funky Penguin! “Midnight Moon”—(see, album cover) our heroes drive off at the end of movie after having stomped out evil, still alive, but very, very tired. “Tipsy”—they arrive at the saloon to see a show, but they end up condemning the exploitation of the dancers and eating their straw hats. “Far East Blues”—motorcycle trip around the world with nothing but a bedroll, cumulative wisdom, and a squeezed-out tube of Desitin. “Gentle Sea”—after a long journey our reformed antiheroes believe they are arriving at the sea, the end of the land… but it turns out to merely be the end of Side A. “Jamaican Holiday”—Veronica demands to know why they’re called “The Archies” and not The Veronicas? “Enter Sunlight”—How did everyone suddenly get to be middle-aged and no longer really enjoying their cocktails? “Haunted House”—it’s not really haunted, but the biker gang who lives there is faking a haunted house (surprise!) to keep away the renovators. “Movin’”—“It’s a beautiful night for a daydream, and it’s a beautiful day for a nightmare” is the name of the dance where your feet can’t leave the floor. “Twilight”—we finally know where we’re going… and… there’s a signpost up ahead! “Pause”—it’s a beautiful… uh. It’s a beautiful… uh. It’s a beautiful… oh, shit. It’s a beautiful dream for… uh. It’s a beautiful… uh… oh, shit…

Alice Cooper “Muscle of Love”

This is an oddball record in my LP collection—in more ways than one. First of all, the strange packaging—the album cover is a corrugated cardboard shipping carton—the kind of box you might ship an LP in, to this day—but it is the cover—it has the title and band name and other info printed in red—so it really does look like a shipping box. I’m sure my 13-year-old self caught on, but it might have confused some people. Also, I seem to remember there was a water stain on my cover—and I think I spent half my life thinking it was water damaged, but now, on the internet, I see that there was an intentional “stain” as part of the design, which is kind of next level. Even weirder, on my copy, after all these years (50 years!) the stain has disappeared! Could that be possible? Did it just fade? And weirder still, the full-color inner sleeve (and supplementary materials, later on those) both seem to be water damaged. Were they intentionally fake water damaged as well, or did they actually get water damaged (but how could they without the corrugated cover getting damaged)? Or did they just get really worn over the years (50 years!) by being inside a corrugated cardboard album cover on record shelves? It’s a real head-scratcher—still a bit of a grand mystery!

The other odd thing about this album cover is that it’s been signed by Alice Cooper—the only one of my albums that I’ve ever had signed by the artist, or anyone. How this came about is pretty funny—a number of years back my brother was working at this very nice golf course in Ohio, and Alice Cooper, an avid golfer, was coming through and asked in advance for someone to play a round with, so my brother jumped at that opportunity. It sounded like they both had a good time. Not having his own AC record in his collection, he took along my copy of “Muscle of Love” (I had a lot of records stored at his house at the time) for the rock star to sign, with a Sharpie, on the brown cardboard cover. I admit, it gives me a bit of a thrill, since I’ve always been an Alice Cooper fan (though, never saw him live). I’ve never really been one for autographs (got a few from Cleveland Indian ballplayers when I was a kid), though, so this is rare for me. But this reminds me of something I’ve been trying to remember for years—the one time I went to one of those record store signings, where you stand in line, meet the musician. I went up to Cleveland—this was the early Eighties—and Lou Reed was doing a signing. He was my all-time hero, so why not (also, sadly, never saw him play live). Anyway, I took something ODD for him so sign—and I can’t remember what it was. Apparently, it was a little unusual, because I remember the funny look he gave me—the amused, unreadable smile—I felt like I surprised him a little. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was I had him sign—much less where it is now! (A side note: I just heard that Tony Bennett passed away. I did, actually, once, see him live.)

Back to the record. I was surprised to realize this LP actually came out the same year (1973), but after, Billion Dollar Babies—just later that year. Even though I feel like I’m a pretty big fan, the only three AC records I’ve owned were these two and School’s Out (1972) (previously reviewed here, November 2017). I was too young, maybe, for the four records before these—and after this one—I didn’t buy any more. So, I guess I’m not that big of a fan, really—but then, in general, I suck as a music fan. I pretty much move on from artists after a few records, pretty consistently—not all that different from my love life—ha! Anyway, they really went all out with the packaging on these three LPs. Besides the nutty cover of this one, the inner sleeve—one side—is a photo of the band wearing sailor suits in front of the “Institute of Nude Wrestling”—did such a thing exist? They’re paying lots of money to a “little person” and “lady of the night.” There’s also a guy in a suit walking out of frame—who is that guy?! (Leave a comment, please!) It was maybe the next year when the Rolling Stones did a video for “It’s Only Rock’n’Roll”—wearing sailor suits—so, around this time, I was wondering, what exactly did sailor suits mean? (It was several years, still, until The Village People’s “In the Navy.”) On the other side of the sleeve is the quite gruesome depiction of the bloody and mangled band members after their realization that the “live, nude, female” they were paying to wrestle was actually a gorilla. Funny bit. If that wasn’t enough, also included was a paper book cover. Back then, it was often a requirement to make book covers (usually with paper shopping bags) to protect your school textbooks. This one includes all credits for the record, more photos, including the band, as sailors again, peeling potatoes, and an official logo for the “Institute of Nude Wrestling.” I apparently didn’t use my book cover, since it’s intact—either I wanted to save it (for this day), or I was embarrassed to go through school with such a thing emblazoned on my social studies book!

As for the songs—a little uneven, but they’re all okay, and some are really good. At the time I bought this record (1973), I’m not sure that I knew that New York was “The Big Apple”—because I recall being confused why someone would have a song called “Big Apple Dreamin’ (Hippo)”—also confused by the reference to Ohio—and really had no idea about the “Hippo” part—still a few years before the internet, or me personally exploring the underbelly of “The City.” The whole record confused me, actually—it just didn’t quite have the vitality and insanity of  “Billion Dollar Babies”—though, now I’ve come around to it—just for what it is. “Never Been Sold Before” starts out sounding a lot like an early KISS song (I mean that in the best way), though KISS’s first LP was still a year off. But then horns come in, and a good chorus—and it sounds like Alice Cooper. The biggest confusion of all was the song “Man with the Golden Gun”—which sounded exactly like a James Bond opening number—but then, that movie opened, and there was an entirely different song, sung by Lulu—which always sounded like a soft-porn Bond parody to me—but very little about that movie makes any sense at all (except for Christopher Lee). Of course, from the first time I heard the name of the title, “Muscle of Love,” it was clearly a clever reference to the penis—but in the song itself, did he sing “my heart’s a muscle of love?” Was I wrong? Of course not. There are a lot of good songs on this record—my favorite is “Teenage Lament ’74”—which I didn’t really relate to at the time—the age of 15 seemed way far off, and I couldn’t really see myself quite in with the “cool kids” (the one singing this song) quite yet. They are good songwriters, and they could play rock’n’roll. Great background vocals on this record, too—credited are: Labelle (Nona and Sarah), Liza Minnelli, The Pointer Sisters, and Ronnie Spector! My inclination is to say that Alice Cooper of this era is vastly “underrated”—but then I’d sound like one of those geniuses in the YouTube comments—ha!

Carole King “Fantasy”

I’d never heard (or remembered I had heard) any of this record, from my favorite (for music) year of 1973. Carole King is such an amazing songwriter, and singer—I could probably hang out on her most boringest day and have one of my most memorable (my fantasy, being a teenager and invited in the studio, where she’s writing and recording, and I’m just taking it in). But, for some reason, back in the early Seventies, I avoided her like homework—I knew no better. This is a somewhat odd record in that there’s a little intro at the beginning (“Fantasy Beginning”), and at the end, “Fantasy End” (outro)—that are intended to tie the whole thing together, I suppose. And there is no space between songs—they just bump into each other—so it’s like one big song (though you have to turn the record over—did I need to say that). Glad the inner sleeve is intact, because there’s lyrics on one side. The other side is sepia version of the album cover—which is like a muted, colorized sepia (really, just blues added). It’s an odd style of photo collage, using a grand piano from the top as a frame in which there’s a street scene—people coming and going—and then a portrait of Carole King superimposed, looking over it all like an angel. From what you can make out of the street, I’m guessing it’s NYC Times Square area, because there’s the Horn & Hardart Automat—which is a cool detail—as well, as some other businesses—and the people appear to be tourists. The back is an even more stylized photo collage—that resembles the educational magazine and book illustrations I’d see in grade school, back around this time. The back is all musicians—likely ones featured on this record—including three versions of Carole King.

I’ve got to say, I kind of got obsessed with this record over the last days, weeks, or so I’ve been trying to figure out what I think. At first it bugged me a little—for no good reason—but with repeat listenings, it’s really grown on me. I guess you could say, lyric-wise, she’s asking a lot of questions. Trying to figure things out—and through melodies and lyrics—that’s as good a way as any. I really like how it all flows together, rather than isolating songs—even though there are some very good songs. Listening to it now, it’s reminding me of different things—soul music from this era, certainly. Oddly, the end of side one (the song “Weekdays”) made me think of my favorite Frank Sinatra album—Watertown (from 1970). This has got me questioning how I listen to music lately—picking these records randomly, and then sometimes I listen to them once—and write about them. But this is one that really benefits from being treated like when I used to buy records as a teenager—when each new one would be a new journey, and I’d really live with it for a while. I guess from now on, I’m going to try to recognize when that kind of listening works better. I’m sure there are people out there who love Carole King more than anyone—who might think it’s odd that it’s taken me so long to love her as much as they do. Well, you know.

James Last “Russland Zwischen Tag und Nacht”

Sometimes ignorance is a lot of fun—but I don’t mean in that proud and disdainful way that’s just kind of ignorant—I’m talking more about laughing at yourself for missing the boat completely and looking like the clown that you are. I bought this record (cheap, of course) thinking it’s someone no one’s ever heard of (even though it’s on the Polydor label). 1973 is a good year (maybe my favorite of all the years, for vinyl) so… good bet there. The title meant nothing to me, but it had a nice ring to it. Among the band photos on back there’s one taken behind the musicians in a large arena, and they all look fairly groovy (it is 1973). And the guy on the front cover, who one assumes is James Last, with his long hair, beard, and suede jacket, looks like he 5^th member of Led Zeppelin. My hope, and hopeful assumption, was that this would be some obscure, German, Seventies, prog rock. To my goofy surprise then, it turns out he’s a German big band leader, with 100’s of titles, and has sold more than 200 million records! And if this one is any indication, he should be honored with a portrait at the Corn Palace (in corn, of course), a butter sculpture at the state fair, and should rival your Herb Alperts and Mitch Millers at thrift stores everywhere. How could I never have heard of him? Well, not my cup of tea, or bowl of “acoustic porridge,” as I saw his music described on the Big Bulletin Board. I really can’t listen to the record more than once, but looking at James Last’s immense discography, I had the fleeting idea that I could do a performance piece by playing this album and then attempting to recite his massive list of titles over it (if you browse them, you’ll see what I mean). But that might seem like I was making fun of him, and even as an unsuccessful, old, white guy with more German blood than anything, I’d still feel bad about making fun of someone who is no longer with us, even if my performance was inevitably enjoyed by an audience in the single digits—and those only in attendance through a personal allegiance that only exists because I have the good sense to not actually go through with such a travesty.

Grace Slick “Manhole”

Side A (or, “Right Side Up”—yes, it’s one of those) starts out with what sounds like some backwards stuff, you know, tape running backwards. I don’t think sung backwards, though—though maybe Grace Slick could do it. Some of this record is sung in Spanish, but I don’t think I confuse Spanish with backwards English, come on. Though, it could be Spanish backwards, it’s hard to tell. Anyway, kinda weird that two records in a row (randomly selected for review) have backwards stuff. I would have thought that the first time someone did that (whether or not they were chanting “Satan”) would have been quite enough—like putting a PowerPoint chapter in a novel—it’s clever exactly one time—but after that—no.

This strange record from 1973 is all over the place, to say the least, and there’s certainly enough here that I could imagine someone getting quite obsessed with it, while others might dismiss it as too weird—and that alone would get my attention (though I’ve read or heard exactly nothing about this record in the last half-century). Actually, the cover alone was enough to get my attention—a painting or drawing of Grace Slick as Medusa, perhaps—I’m not sure how much it resembles either (might just be split ends) but it looks great—as does the back cover painting or drawing of people (perhaps those involved in this record) in the recording studio. I was looking for the art credits, and then noticed, right on the front: “Child type odd art by Grace.” Also, just the name of the record, “Manhole,” got my attention because, when I thought about it, that word, which describes a “utility hole” is not really used that often (unless you’re a utility worker) and it is possibly used more often as a pun, for either a man’s anus (good), or “deep pit of the grim and pathetic downside of the male segment of the species” (bad). Also, it’s the name of one of my all-time-favorite songs, by Men’s Recovery Project (2005).

This masterpiece is on Grunt Records, which I did have to look up, being curious. I guess it was Jefferson Airplane’s label, at least after 1971. Interesting name for a record label, as it might possibly mean “workers in the trenches” (admirable), or “the sound one makes while pooping” (gross). If this record is any indication, “Grunt” could also have meant “artistic freedom,” or “like pulling teeth.” I’ll go with artistic freedom, or at least freedom from trying to satisfy a certain percentage of expectations in order to sell a certain number of units. Most of the first side is: “Theme from the Movie ‘Manhole’”—and I’m not going to make the assumption that no such movie exists, at least as a movie—but I will make the assumption that such a movie, if it indeed did exist, would be enhanced if you were high—at least a little bit. I was lucky enough, with my used copy of the record, to have a full-size 8-page insert intact. It’s mostly lyrics and credits, but there’s some whimsical foolery as well. Also, a newspaper clipping about a Madrid gas leak explosion that sent manhole covers airborne like breakfast cereal. Side B (or, “Upside Down”) sounds like another adventure entirely—it’s like the cornucopia of pills that are Side A were isolated one at a time (or in limited, manageable cocktails) to make up each of the four songs on Side B. It’s all a lot of fun, actually, and very 1973—and it puts me in mind of the spirit of my first band—despite our limitations—though this isn’t about me.

10cc “10cc”

I remember 10cc from the Seventies—though I don’t remember if I personally had any of their records. I recently found a copy of this, their first LP, from 1973, which I know I had not heard before, so I was curious. The cover is intriguing, and mildly disturbing, as “10cc” is spelled out with what looks like inflated, damaged and repaired, sausage casings—or possibly condoms—come alive like balloon animals. It’s pretty great. I also looked them up on the big computer, and it turns out their Wikipedia page is practically a full-length biography. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such a long Wikipedia page. Weird. Check it out if you’re curious, and you’ve got an afternoon. I was also reminded of their song “Life is a Minestrone” —which is one thing I could have gone to my grave without thinking about ever again and been just as well. The song I have always associated with this band is their 1975 hit, “I’m Not in Love” —which I always had a fondness for. It gave me a somewhat intrigued, slightly adult, mysterious feeling. Listening to it now, it’s still pleasant, but really, it’s just a nice melody and a lot of air. And the “big boys don’t cry” part, in the middle, makes me cringe.

As far as this record, it’s just not for me. It’s jaunty, goofy, upbeat, clever, but too much of all of those for my enjoyment. People who like, say, the really goofy end of the Frank Zappa spectrum might like this record. They are funny guys, yet not clowns nor comedians, yet funnier than clown or comedians. Too funny. One of the band members goes by LOL CRÈME, which I always thought was one of the better rock star names. And this is back when LOL simply meant LOL. (My word processing added the little accent above Crème, I’m not sure why, but I’m going to leave it. It’s funny.) Oh, and one more thing, there has long been a controversy about what the name of their band means (it’s a very cool band name, 10cc). I’ll clear that up right now. 10cc, or 10 cubic centimeters—which is roughly equivalent to .33814 ounces—is the amount of hard liquor (80 proof) it takes for each member of the band, otherwise known as “lightweights,” to become silly, even goofy. I’d say in recording this record, they must have consumed nearly 1000cc, or one liter, each, of hard liquor (80 proof). Or the equivalent.

Vikki Carr “Ms. America”

Another record from my favorite year, 1973, which I didn’t listen to in 1973. Though, of course, I heard a lot of these songs on the kitchen radio in the morning while eating my Pop Tarts and steeling myself for another brutal day of junior high. I’m talking about “Danny’s Song” (it’s the “Even though he ain’t got money/I’m so in love with you honey” song—never knew the name of it)—though I most likely heard the the Loggins and Messina or Anne Murray version. This version is certainly better than my memory of it—maybe it’s just better. “Killing Me Softly with His Song,” however, sounds almost exactly like I remember, from hearing it thousands of times—though I’m probably remembering the Roberta Flack version—or perhaps the Anne Murray version. Vikki Carr, as one might guess, is a stage name, and a good one. I’m not sure if you went over to her house (which is a lovely dream) you’d address her as Florencia Bisenta de Casillas-Martínez Cardona, or not. She’s Mexican American, born in El Paso, and has a fascinating discography—I guess she’s sold more Spanish language records, yet she’s definitely a household name in English—who hasn’t heard of Vikki Carr? I don’t think my parents had any of her records—but they would have fit in with the Streisand and the Bacharach. The other really familiar one on this record is “Neither One of Us,.” which was a Gladys Knight & the Pips hit—no doubt the one I’m remembering—a great song. My other favorites are, the emotional ballad “Baby Don’t Walk Out On Me,” and “I Would Be Your Friend” (which creates a holographic image of David Cassidy, for some reason). Also, the low-key “Somebody Loves You,” in which she throws in a little Spanish, and also a talking part—which I always love, and she also does in “We Didn’t Know The Time of Day”—a kind of sad one. The album cover is an odd shade of brown that you don’t usually see used for things you’re not going to eat (i.e. chocolate), but most of the front is taken up by a large photo of Vikki Carr standing in front of some dark draperies—she’s wearing matching tan suede jacket and pants, and a pink collared shirt. She’s also got a gold chain that would suit a rapper, and from what I can see of it, an insanely intricate brown leather belt. There may be no more pleasing color combo than brown and pink, so I love this cover. Her suede suit, with large pockets and buttons, might have been considered dated in the years between then and now—written off as tacky, even. But if you showed up somewhere today wearing that, people would be drooling all over it.

Skeeter Davis “I Can’t Believe That It’s All Over”

Ask me how many Skeeter Davis records I have—I can’t tell you—I really have no idea. I know I don’t have them all. And I still haven’t heard one I don’t love. This one is no exception—another great record from Skeeter Davis. It feels almost contemporary, with that really flimsy RCA vinyl and futuristic logo. Yet it’s from 1973, which is getting on near half a century—hard to believe. It looks like (depending on the accuracy of online discography) this record was near the end of her reign of putting out two albums a year—stretching back before 1960. The picture of her on the cover looks different than any other picture I’ve seen of her—yet still unmistakably her, and quite lovely. The liner notes on the back are by Skeeter, written by hand—it’s so convincing looking that I had to look really close—She wouldn’t have written personal notes on each record, would she? Of course not. But it definitely gets the idea across that this is an intimate message—and long, too—two pages! She talks about her first ever performance, in Cincinnati when she was in first grade, and how she knew from that point how important the applause was to her. And then, how she was thinking of quitting singing, but here’s another record. Just reading this personal note about quitting kind of made me feel funny in my stomach—and I know she hasn’t been with us for years and years now—but then… I guess she is. Every time I put on one of her records, it’s like she’s right here in the room. And that’s not the case with everyone, with every singer, to be sure (and not even with every song, by her). It’s partly the songs, and partly the recording, and a lot her voice and whatever it is about her spirit that appeals to me so much. Ten fine songs on this record—but particularly appealing to me are: the title song, a classic country song by Ben Peters (one of those where she talks… I love that). And there’s a really nice version of the Jackson 5 hit, “I’ll Be There.” Also, “Stay Awhile with Me,” is by Skeeter and Linda Palmer, very fine. My favorite on the record is: “It Really Doesn’t Matter at All,” a melancholy and beautiful song by Helen Cornelius. It really is a good one, you’ll have to hear it.