Carly Simon “Hotcakes”

I’ll buy anything (record, book, movie) called “Hotcakes,” or “Pancakes,” or “Donuts,” or “Homefries,” for that matter—anything that you drink coffee with, and might be consumed for breakfast, or at a diner or lunch counter. If “Hotcakes” somehow refers to sex, however, I’m not as interested. I don’t know why it would, necessarily, but if you push anything far enough, it ends up on sex, eventually. Of course, the title of this record might have just meant that it was intended to sell a buttload of units. That doesn’t sound good, but I’ll edit that out—I’m trying to type as fast as the songs are going by. I’m really liking the sound of this record—but that doesn’t surprise me, seeing how it’s from my favorite year for pop music, 1974. Great musicians, fine production, good sound. The album cover makes me wonder. Carly Simon is wearing a very cottony or linen-looking white dress, sitting on a wooden chair painted white, in a room painted white, resting on a table (painted white) that’s built onto the wall, under a window with a white curtain. There’s a tiny bit of silver hardware. The window is closed, but the glass is covered over with, you guessed it, white. What does it mean? The back cover is a close-up, CS is contemplative, barely smiling (no teeth), looking off, holding what looks like rosary beads or a long necklace, part of which are white elephants… I think. Could be anteaters. If they’re elephants, I kind of hope they aren’t made of ivory. The cover opens up to reveal a striking two-foot-tall photograph of Carly Simon kind of dancing for the camera, hands outstretched, posing by the side of a mountain road. She’s, again, smiling, wearing a hippie dress, faded denim smock, wide brimmed hat, clogs, and red knee socks. My 14-year-old self could have hung this on my bedroom wall like a poster, and why not.

I made pancakes this morning—hadn’t made any in a while—and now I realized I might have been anticipating writing something about this record. Or else—the breakfast led to this, I’m not sure—but I like when things work that way. Most of the songs are written or cowritten by Carly Simon. “Forever My Love” is one of my favorites—it’s cowritten by James Taylor, who plays on, I think, every song. I believe they were married at this time. The one cover song is “Mockingbird” —you know that one—which they do as a duet—it’s a hot version—and some big names playing on that one. There’s an overall feeling of happiness to these songs, and this record in general. I don’t mind that so much—someone’s got to stay positive for the rest of us. Also, when the general mood is well-adjusted, positive, even happy—it gives added weight to the inevitable melancholy moments. One wonders if a song called, “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain” addresses this idea. Of course it does—and it could, as well, in my opinion, sell as much catsup as “Anticipation” (1971). There is a song called “Hotcakes,” by the way, but it’s only a minute long, sounds a little odd since its down there with the tight grooves—but it’s a rap song, with horns, about hotcakes. “Safe and Sound” is another good one. “Mind On My Man” kind of makes me jealous. As does “Think I’m Gonna Have a Baby.” I mean, my 14-year-old self with the two-foot-high poster on my bedroom wall. And finally, I’m fascinated with “Just Not True,” though I can’t figure out what it’s saying, exactly—but I like it for that—as well as that it won’t sell ketchup or set up James Bond—but I like it all the more for that.

Mott the Hoople “The Hoople”

There is no way in the world I can listen to this record with the least sense of objectivity—even after 50 years! Yes, it’s been 50 years since I bought this one, and it still plays great—I think it’s my original copy—and it was, indeed, when I was 14 years old, my favorite record for a while. I played it obsessively, obsessed over it, and never got over it. I suppose there is something kind of hopeful about the fact that when I put this record on it takes me right back to that time and place and the person I was then. That’s the power of music, but so much for objectivity. Though—of course I hear it somewhat differently—in that I’ve had half a century of listening to other music, and listening is always a learning experience. I’m sure I hear more, now, and I hear deeper and with a greater degree of understanding and sophistication. So… I’m happy to report that it actually sounds better now than it did back then.

I wrote a “review” back in 2008—when I was less wordy—two sentences—there was more of interest in the comments. Then, around 2018 I went to the Mott the Hoople ’74 show—I think that’s what they called it—great to see Ian Hunter live. I might have said before, this is the odd band in that their best two albums were their last two (this one, and “Mott,” the year before). I mean, that’s my opinion—but it’s like they evolved into this excellence—where most bands evolve to the point where they’re at their peak for the first few albums and then it’s all downhill from there. The album cover is somewhat of an iconic one—a life-size, high-contrast photo of a woman (I wonder who is this “Kari-Ann?”) In her large, large hair are images superimposed of the band members. Ian Hunter, naturally with sunglasses. Really excellent longtime rhythm section Dale Griffin and Overend Watts (both who had sadly passed away before that 2018 tour. But the “new guys,” Morgan Fisher and madman “Ariel Bender” (Luther Grosvenor) were playing. All of them—in the model’s hair, on the cover—had great hair. At the 2018 show—when I looked around the audience, I estimated that about 80% (including me) were balding.

I’ll put it on for the… what? Maybe 2000^th time… see what it sounds like. My first observation is really obvious—so much so, I guess, that I failed to ponder it over the years and listenings—there’s a funny intro at the beginning of “The Golden Age of Rock’n’Roll” (“Ladies and gentlemen…”) which kind of sets the whole album up as a kind of theatrical show—which it really is—kind of an album length hard rock opera. It’s not really hard rock—though it is, too—that would be the guitar element. The piano, strings, horns, backing vocals, and ridiculously complex song structures and over-the-top production is pure showtune. All of that can be heard in the in the second song, “Marionette,” which is kind of a mini-hard-rock-opera within the opera. (A theatrical production would feature, no doubt, full-on puppet show.) Third song already, “Alice,” is the best on the record (my opinion, but while I’m at it, I’ll say it’s the best ever Mott the Hoople and/or Ian Hunter song). At the risk of sounding like YouTube comments, I’d say this song is one of the most overlooked five minutes in the entire history of rock’n’roll. Rather than attempt to say why and fail, I’ll just leave it up to the reader who has forgotten it to give it another listen… and for those who’ve never heard it… well.

I just noticed that “Crash Street Kidds” has two “Ds” on Kidds—why? Usually that indicates a name (though, not “Billy the Kid”). By coincidence, right now, I’m reading (it’s a long book) Dhalgren, by Samuel R. Delany, which also came out in 1974. The main character is sometimes “Kid” and sometimes “Kidd”—could it be possible that the hyperliterate Ian Hunter was reading it? Who knows. The only song not written by Hunter, “Born Late ’58” is by Overend Watts (and sung by him). It was my favorite on the record for a long time—though always inextricably connected to a gin blackout—maybe a deprogramming would be in order by this point. Also, when I was 14, I didn’t care for “Trudi’s Song” or “Through the Looking Glass” (the ballads), but now I love those songs. That’s one change, over time. “Pearl ’n’ Roy (England)” is probably my second favorite on the record, and another rock showtune. As is “Roll Away the Stone,” which is the perfect bookend with “The Golden Age…” and closes out the show.

I never noticed, on the bottom of the lyrics inner sleeve, a “Write Mott” address: c/o Josephine Targo/114 7^th Avenue/New York 10011. I tried searching, but just got a ham & cheese croissant on TikTok—which just made me tired. Zillow shows a closet with a kitchenette for a million dollars. It’s hard to search Manhattan—even the ghosts have been priced out. Record company person? Fan club? Who knows. At one point, when I first heard about (and read some of) those 33 1/3 books—each one about a record—I loved the idea so much I thought I might submit a proposal. My idea was to write about this record. I never got any further than thinking a lot about it. Their requirements for book proposals are pretty rigorous (as it should be), and I didn’t think I was up to the deep dive this album (and Mott the Hoople) deserves. It would be a shame not to interview Ian Hunter and the other surviving band members, for one thing. Maybe someone’s written one of those books about this record, or another Mott LP, by now—I haven’t checked lately. I think it’s a deceptively difficult project—I mean that size and scope of a book. Not easy to write something that lengthy about a record (especially one you love) without fluff—and at the same time—if it’s your favorite record ever—that short. But hey, now that I’m thinking about it again, maybe I’ll give it another try.

Minnie Riperton “Perfect Angel”

Besides being one of the classic album covers of the Seventies (Minnie Riperton holding a melting ice-cream cone like it’s a… microphone. Or, an ice cream cone). It’s an image that makes me feel the melting ice cream running over my fingers—I’d say that anyone who’s eaten an ice cream cone has had that experience. Despite her warm weather ware (bib overalls with no shirt) the image doesn’t have to be sexual, okay? I mean, if someone gave me the choice between sex and ice cream—well… I don’t know. That has never happened. This is a great sounding record—it sounds like 1974 to me. I mean that in the best way. Probably no more charged year in my life (I was 14, a crazy year for anyone, but also… I won’t go into personal details. Both sadness and that transition between child and adult). Great songs on this record, and they’re all very different. There’s even a little bit of country, there’s ballads, rock, funk, soul, pop. They’re all by Minnie Riperton and Richard Rudolph—except for two, which are by Stevie Wonder. Among my favorites are “The Edge of a Dream,” “Every Time He Comes Around,” and “It’s So Nice (To See Old Friends).”

I guess Minnie Riperton is famous for being able to hit those otherworldly high notes—which is impressive—but there’s some other quality to her voice that I particularly like—it’s too easy to say “soulful,” which it is—maybe there is something weirdly familiar about it. I don’t know why I think that… I only have a few of her records. I don’t know. The playing on this record is particularly good, throughout, too. Who’s that bass player? Reggie McBride, on every song. A young guy, from Detroit—he’s played on a million records. Also, a lot of piano and some other instruments credited to the mysterious (*). (That’s an asterisk inside of parentheses.) Which you, of course, follow down the bottom to learn is: “El Toro Negro.” Good luck figuring out who that is, in 1974, but the internet of today tells me it is Stevie Wonder—performing under this alias because of a conflicting label affiliation (something like, he was with Motown, and this is CBS?—but don’t quote me). The most well-known song is “Lovin’ You”—that’s the one with the bird sounds—credits say: Mocking Bird—credited to God. And I’ll take that mocking bird over harmonica any day. The title song is one of the Stevie Wonder compositions, which is nice and breezy, cool and jazzy—and his other song, “Take a Little Trip,” is my favorite here—it’s the weirdest—very odd, kind of off-kilter, also a bit jazzy, and very quite cosmic.

Randy Pie “Highway Driver”

My hobby of buying any record (cheapo, naturally) with the band name (or artist) starting with “Randy” doesn’t always work out for the best. It rarely does—I mean, as well as with Randy Lee—which was a great find of all time. There have been some somewhat bummers in the past, but I won’t go into it. This one (Randy Pie—meaning? Take a stab…) starts out on an alarming note—sounding like bland German Seventies prog rock—and it is from 1974 and there’s a guy in the band named “Werner”—so what’d I expect. The second song is restrained and funky, though, at least until the vocals come in—but it’s at least interesting. Eniac informs me that are a German band, from Hamburg—they put out half a dozen records in the Seventies—this is their second. I do like the bass playing quite a bit—it’s behind what’s good about the songs—as well as the electric piano. Some pretty good flute, too—artful and restrained. Nice keyboard playing all around—someone’s on that Clavinet—which I love—I could just have a Clavinet section in my record shelf. I’m trying to catch some lyrics, which are in English, but what I do hear don’t do much for me—so I skip it. Only seven songs on the record, so they really stretch out on each one. Nice, small band pic on back—all dudes, looking like a 1970s German band. The album cover is a rather odd photo of a bleached-blonde woman with a suitcase, leaning on a gnarly, old truck (implying that she’s hitchhiking)—we get a LOT of foreground in the photo—you never saw so much gravel. Apparently before the days of photo-manipulation because visible is: the license plate (JBH21) and the name on the truck door (A.F. Dutton Ltd./Iver./Bucks)—unless those are intentional but cryptic messages. Also, the building in the background (where the trucker is presumably taking a shit) has a sign in which we only see the letter “N”—and also an uncharacteristically small billboard sign—yes, the never-changing, ubiquitous “Coca-Cola”—which possibly could have been cropped in, and then left in for some kind of an ironic “message”—or maybe Polydor was already owned by the international Coke blowjob cartel as early as this—I don’t really know, nor do care.

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young “So Far”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear this record when it came out in 1974—it must have been some years later. I didn’t realize, at the time, that it was a compilation record. It just was—had a bizarre cover, and the back cover was totally blank, which meant (     )? (Finally figured that one out!) I didn’t have any records by any of these guys—though I had this 1973 Warner compilation where I heard songs by each of them in other combinations—though no songs from this record, except for Joni Mitchell’s version of her song, “Woodstock,” and no Neil Young (though, a song by Neil Young). The relationships were all too complicated for me to wrap my brain around—I probably assumed they were all living in one, big, California commune. I probably also thought there were drugs involved. One made a lot of assumptions, and your only information came from the records, the late-night musical showcase TV shows, and the 3 music magazines I read. I can actually nail down when I did first listen to this—around 1977—because I was directly influenced by it in my poetry (as in, I ripped it off), and I have dated, accessible, documentation (which is kind of sick, if you think about it). I think I also ripped off Joni Mitchell’s drawing style (the album cover, which is pretty nice). I really did love this record at that time—and it sounds great to me now—in part due to nostalgia. I don’t think I appreciated, back then, though, the excellence of their singing, the harmonies, and the overall sound. I did appreciate the songs—where does that appreciation come from? Anyone can love a song, I guess. But I didn’t appreciate what an incongruous collection of songs these were—instead, they seemed to fit together like the ingredients of a deluxe pizza. So, what does this record make me think of now? Christmas. Weed. Driving around and drinking beer. Pizza.

Bill Wyman “Monkey Grip”

I always thought Bill Wyman was the coolest of the Rolling Stones—and there’s plenty of old accessible, old, footage to watch if you want to debate—a good way to spend a rainy afternoon. I didn’t realize he quit the band so long ago—the same year I quit drinking—almost 30 years ago. Like yesterday. This is not a hard record to find, but I coveted my copy since I first heard it in 1987 (it came out in 1974). It’s one of those mildly bizarre rock’n’roll relics of the Seventies. A lot of “what were they thinking?” moments—I love it—with reservations, as it doesn’t take long to fall on unacceptable side of acceptable. For instance, on the standout opening number, “I Wanna Get Me a Gun,” he sings: “I’d like to get me a gun—and scare the shit out of everyone.” Uhh… you just did. “Pussy” features fiddle, banjo, and the good ole’ Jews harp, played by Bill (he plays bass, throughout, and there’s no shortage of excellent musicians on this record). I didn’t listen closely enough to discern the lyrics, but I assume it’s about a cat. The song, “Monkey Grip Glue”—there seems to be a story in there—lying somewhere between misogynistic and nonsensical—but I can’t figure it out. Apparently, Monkey Grip is an actual product, but good luck trying to find it online—when your search will bring up this album, a somewhat more fascinating product. The album cover belongs in the bizarre album cover museum, no doubt. While you’re searching, though, don’t pass up the chance to watch the “I Wanna Get Me a Gun” video—it’s a shortened version, but truly one of the ten best things on YouTube at any given time. This is a very American sounding record, which is interesting—honkytonk, country, R&B—which I guess makes sense, from a Rolling Stone. His singing voice is pretty innocuous, but what’s interesting, it doesn’t sound English at all. Maybe you sing like what you most listen to. My favorite song on the record is the last one, “It’s a Wonder”—because it’s the funkiest—it has a nice groove. Last is a good place to put a strong number, since it’ll lesson your inclination to take the vinyl off and mold it into a salad bowl or something. Not that I’d consider that—I love Bill Wyman!

Barry White “Can’t Get Enough”

I didn’t listen to Barry White back when this record came out—if I knew about him, I ignored him—maybe thinking it was too commercial? I don’t remember. This record is from 1974, the year I first smoked marijuana—though, at that time I was more inclined to listen to slightly pretentious German prog-rock. Anyway, a few years back I bought one of his early records and I loved it—so I bought a few more, including this one—though I’m not sure I listened to this one until now. I’m not crazy about the drum sound, right off—it sounds like there was something odd with the production. Or it could be something wrong with my stereo—that’s a distinct possibility, so the jury’s still out, as they say. It might just be a version of disco style production—some of the more extreme disco records, if you listen to them now, it sounds like people lost their minds (which they did, more or less). Anyway, it’s not that bad—it’s just on a few songs the snare drum sounds like someone hitting a prefab garden shed with a rubber hose. The rest of the instrumentation sounds good, anyway, including the vocals. The last song on Side One, “I Can’t Believe You Love Me,” is pretty much a Barry White masterpiece—it’s ten minutes, but I could listen for ten hours. Side Two starts out with “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe,” which is quite familiar—it must have been a hit—it’s a great song. There are only seven tracks on the record, and two of them are the brief, instrumental, “Mellow Mood” that opens and closes the record. I like the idea—but its brevity doesn’t lend itself to a good “make out record”—unless you work fast—since the whole thing is barely a half hour. There’s enough unmolested vinyl, next to the label, on each side, to park your car and still leave space for your ex-wives. I wouldn’t mind if there were only two songs total, as Barry White gets the most out of repetition and laying back—I could listen to him just do one of his intros for an hour. But I’m just wishing there was a little more, here, all in all. Anyway, it’s a fine record, and seriously worth buying for the great album cover, alone, which is a painting by Al Harper. There are four renditions of Barry White, from the neck up, different sizes—one singing (eyes closed), one looking off at the horizon, one looking at the lady to your right, and one looking directly at you. They are fine portraits, but take on a kitschy quality, presented as they are in a kind of stylized collage with a lot of circles of many shades of blue. It feels dated but wonderful—one of my favorite album covers in recent memory. I wonder what the original painting would cost you?

The Mills Brothers “Cab Driver”

It’s not likely I’ll become The Mills Brothers’ biggest fan—though, if I got ahold of some of their older records and put some time in, who knows. This one, from 1974, is one of the later ones—they were putting out records since the Forties—and the internet lists at least 50 before this—and if you look at singles—it’s crazy. I can’t remember where I picked this up. They had a record a couple of years earlier with the great title: “A Donut and a Dream” (and there’s a diner on the cover). They were huge, sold millions of records, and they were in movies and on TV. I looked for a documentary about them—there is one from the Eighties—I’ll have to watch sometime (someone posted it on YouTube, in parts, so you can watch it right now). I know they originated in Piqua, Ohio—and since I spent some time down in Troy, near there, that area is close to my heart. Anyway, I like this record fine—there are a dozen pop vocal songs—all of them catchy and a most a little corny. A few of their classic hits, like, “You Always Hurt the One You Love.” The standouts, here, are “Cab Driver” (naturally) and “Truck Stop” (any song with greasy spoon and coffee shop in the lyrics). Various songwriters, hits over the years. I could listen to this stuff all day if this is what I had to listen to. This album is in perfect condition—it looks brand new. It’s funny, thinking of it as one of their “new” records—it being nearly half a century old.  The movie, “Taxi Driver,” came out a couple years later, and feels equally as timeless (not that the two are in any way related!) I like the yellow cab-yellow album cover—and there’s a picture of a “contemporary” cab on the cover—it looks like a Chevy Caprice or Impala—a “Yellow Cab”—even though those classic, old, Checker Cabs would have been still running at this time, of course, and for years after this. This is on Ranwood Records (from Nashville producer Randy Wood). Another funny, dated thing is the sleeve has a little form you can cut out and send your address and a quarter (25 cents) to the Ranwood Records HQ in Los Angeles (9034 Sunset Blvd.—I looked it up—current home of Sketchy, Inc.) Yes, people used to put a quarter in the mail and request catalogs. A stamp, at that time, would have cost ten cents. Sometimes, you’d tape the quarter to a postcard and send that. If you tried that now, it would probably jam the post office automatic system, and shut down the entire USPS for a day.

Mickey Newbury “I Came to Hear the Music”

As I have perhaps recited ad nauseam—when trying to explain my Mickey Newbury obsession—I heard this one song on the radio, and then I’d keep an eye out for MN albums, and kept buying them until I finally bought the album with that song on it. It’s called “You Only Live Once (In A While)”—and while it’s a fine pop country song—it’s probably not quite worthy of “launched a thousand ships” status. What it has going for it, most, I think, is the clever title, which is essentially a pun. Also, that it recalls the song, “You Only Live Twice,” which Nancy Sinatra sings, and is a James Bond movie title song—one of the better ones. At any rate, whether that song warrants the type of obsession I have attributed to it, I’m not convinced, but that’s usually the way those things go. The rest of this record, from 1974, is pretty much consistent with that song and the other Mickey Newbury records I’ve found. He’s a good songwriter, and not afraid to be really quiet, sometimes. But also, there’s a hillbilly song here—with kind of bad grammar poetry—and it has a Milwaukee reference, if anyone’s keeping track. (“I told my junkie friends in Milwaukee…”) It’s called “1 X 1 Ain’t 2.” He knows his math.

The crucial thing, in a way, is that I was able to find Mickey Newbury records because they’re not ridiculously collectable and aren’t all being snatched up by international vinyl collectors on the internet. Also, he was just popular enough to have pressed enough records so they are out there somewhere. The thing that excites me the most is that I’m guessing, among all my friends, an extremely small percentage of them have ever heard of Mickey Newbury. And knowing that, out there, somewhere, are countless recording artists who have actually pressed records and put them out in the world—and I can scour the record bins for the rest of my days and not see them all, buy them all, listen to them all. Most won’t excite me, but it’s possible that my biggest music crush of all time is still waiting there, untouched, waiting for me. And maybe for two dollars. I guess I’m just excited that this, more or less, represents possibility, mystery, and the infinite.

Michael Dinner “The Great Pretender”

I bought this record, used, because I had never heard of it, or him, Michael Dinner, nor could I recall any person, living or dead, having the name of “Dinner” (or Supper, Breakfast, or Lunch, for that matter). When I looked him up on the internet I found who I thought was another Michael Dinner, a successful director and screenwriter, still working—but it turns out it’s the same Michael Dinner! I guess he put out a couple of records in the mid-Seventies (this one is 1974) and then no more. Without further biographical information, I don’t know if his recording career died and then he went into pictures (looks like mostly TV), or if he went into pictures, found success, and was too busy to continue his recording career. We’ll have to ask him to clear that up. (Though, of course, sometimes, that kind of stuff is not very clear, even for the person involved.) You also might wonder why he ended up behind the camera, because if this album cover is any indication, he was pretty hot.

He’s what you’d call, I guess, a singer-songwriter, and the music is, I suppose you could call it, LA country, or California country—it was recorded in LA, and the list of musicians is impressive, lots of familiar names (I’m not going to list them, but it includes Linda Ronstadt). The songs are good, and I have the feeling that they will grow on me after a few more listens. Now it’s a week later—that’s the way things go here at the unpaid, under-appreciated, overly-emotional HQ and Center for Misfit Culture. We don’t care much what you think, but we love you anyway. Anyway, this is definitely a record in which repeat listenings are rewarded, and aren’t those the best kind? “Sunday Morning Fool” is a standout. Dinner has a pretty interesting voice, I mean subtly interesting… he’s a good singer, but more than that, there’s something there that reminds me of Willie Nelson—maybe I’m imagining that, it’s not really pronounced—but I hear that.

Another interesting thing, to me—I feel like I can divide the songs up between the sad and the jaunty (okay, this goes for everyone) and I just really like the ones that are a little more melancholy. I often wonder if the jauntiness is not sometimes coke-fueled, and remember, the years I seem to often focus on—early Seventies—is when the coke flowed like bad puns on grandpa-time. Or so they say. Another interesting observation, Dinner’s two albums were called The Great Pretender (this one) and Tom Thumb the Dreamer. One wonders if he never felt quite at home in this world—and that had something to do with him moving into pictures. But really, this record is pretty good (I’m curious about the other one, now) and you have to wonder about him walking away from a career—if this felt like a career to him, anyway. Also, you have to admire his restraint with respect to not naming this or any other record something like: “Dinner Time,” or “What’s for Dinner,” or “(Call me anything you want, just don’t call me) Late for Dinner.” It probably took great resolve to resit that temptation, and who among us can honestly say they’d have done the same.