Silver Convention “Get Up and Boogie (That’s Right)” / “Son of a Gun”

I’ve lost all patience, I admit, with the internet, social media, this website—the constant hustle just trying to get anyone to listen. I should probably stop writing about records I don’t even like, because I have no energy for “research”—and while I do have nostalgia for many dumb things in my past, I have none for most TV shows and quite a lot of music—including disco. But anyway, here’s a 45 with an attractive label—half yellow, half white—“Midland International”—it’s got more info on it than Encyclopedia Britannica—two dates, 1974, 1976—and under the song titles: “A Butterfly Production by Michael Kunze, An Original Jupiter Recording”—I don’t want to automatically say that sounds like there was coke involved, but come on. I mean “Get Up and Boogie” is a pretty great song—it’s mostly a repetition of several women singers singing “Get up and boogie,” though they occasionally vary that with… “Boogie.” Genius. The thing about the song I don’t like is that periodically the music stops and what sounds like several fraternity brothers shout, “That’s right!” I’m guessing for many, that “makes” the song—but for me, quite the opposite. I guess I could do a remix of the song, cut out the “That’s rights!”—but then, I’m imagining, I’d be tempted to add in something equally as dumb—like “Speen sauce!” Okay, maybe not that dumb.

The B-Side, “Son of a Gun,” is just as good—well, I like it way better (mostly due to it not having gym-short guys singing “That’s right!” all though it). But it’s a pretty great song, actually. The women intermittently sing, “You son of a gun”—which, I believe is intended, in this context, as a woman berating a man. Maybe I’m wrong—but that’s the impression I get, because between those outbursts we hear a man singing (so low and mumbly I can’t really make out the words) a kind of Barry White inspired sleaze-talking. The problem is—“you son of a gun” is never an expression used in anger at someone—it’s always an expression of approval (used with an ironic twist). So, maybe it’s the language barrier here that’s the problem—Silver Convention is a German group, after all. But for me, this is no problem at all—it’s what makes the song—well, that and the soaring instrumental parts that are very cinematic—kind of “Theme from Shaft” inspired. But what if I’m wrong about all this? I’ll have to listen to it REALLY LOUD to see what the low-voiced guy is saying. Well, I still can’t understand what he’s saying, and the neighbors are complaining, but it sounds like he’s trying to get the women to forgive him for some indiscretion, while, at the same time, trying to “get busy” with them. Pretty much what I’d imagined. It is a great song—I guess I like this record after all—and it’s put me in a much better mood! (Why I persist.)

Gino Vannelli “The Gist of the Gemini”

Astute (or slightly insane) readers of the DJ Farraginous “blog” may recall an interesting mention of Gino Vannelli. Back in school, my friend Scott Suter was my hero after he turned me on to Mott the Hoople (first I’d heard of that band), so when he recommended this record, I rushed out and bought it… and I was… disillusioned. Oh, well, maybe I wasn’t ready for it, as a 16-year-old—and ol’ SS was simply more sophisticated. It sounds much better to me now—though, perhaps, barely. I love songs about the year at hand—generally—the one here, however— “A New Fix For ’76”—is the low point of Side One. But the ballads—which I certainly would have dismissed as a rambunctious lad—appeal to me, now, in my mellow years. The internet helps—briefly, GV is originally from Montreal, is relatively young, and is still out their touring—that makes me happy. You could reach GV, back then, via a New Orleans P.O. box (listed below the credits)—maybe you still can. The album cover is kind of incredible—glossy black with glowing white piano keys, and backlit GV and his giant hair. The inside gets even more lycanthropic—bandmembers’ disembodied heads, each seeming to have been radiated with some kind of follicle fertilizer. You kinda gotta see it. Side Two consists of a composition called: “WAR SUITE: Prelude to The War, The Battle Cry, To The War, Carnal Question, After the Last Battle, To The War (Reflection), Summers of My Life.” And they fit it all in. The limitations (in length) of the vinyl era (as opposed to the CD era) were often an undeniable strength. That last number, “Summers…” is technically credited as part of WAR SUITE—but it’s definitely a departure—quite welcome—and it’s my mellow favorite of the record.

Steely Dan “The Royal Scam”

Like I said before, since I’m writing about individual Steely Dan songs elsewhere, I’m going to try to keep this review short (short is the new way—at least I’m trying)! So I’m not even delving into lyrics at all here (which is half the fun with this band). This is maybe the most consistent SD record, song for song—nine songs with no weak links—and in fact, as you’re listening to it, you get the sensation that each song is just a little better than the last, just because there is no letup in excellence. In retrospect, and at this point in time, I’d have to say my favorite song on the album is “The Caves of Altamira”—which, oddly, wasn’t even one I thought much about for the first 40 years of putting this record on the turntable. Maybe it was a little to poppy for me with that chorus, or the horns (now my favorite thing on the record), but at some point, something really clicked, and it became kind of a “soundtrack for my life” song. For people who flip out over virtuosity and innovation—for a band that’s never lacking there—this one’s got some real standout musicians—particularly Paul Griffin and Larry Carlton (not to take away rest of the who’s who). It might be the most guitar-heavy SD record, but that’s just one of the distinctive things about. It fits right in with the rest of their records, and actually does sound like a progression between “Katy Lied” and “Aja.”

To try to put this in the context of 1976 is almost impossible, because it doesn’t remind me of anything else from that year—but I’ve got to look—what was I listening to in ’76? Bob Dylan “Desire” and the live LP “Hard Rain”—both of which I can still listen to. Besides those, however, I bought a lot of other records, around 1976, that I don’t exactly put on for pleasure or nostalgia these days! Including: Blue Oyster Cult “Agents of Fortune,” Bob Seger “Night Moves,” Alan Parsons Project—that E.A. Poe record, Al Stewart “Year of the Cat,” Kansas “Leftoverture,” Rush “2112,” Genesis “A Trick of the Tail”—it’s a little sobering to see what records came out that year! Most of it doesn’t date well with me. And there were other bands that I was already completely through with. Of course, then, there was other 1976 stuff that I didn’t come around to until years and years later. (And some stuff I haven’t gotten to yet.) But none of it really feels like it was coming from remotely the same planet as this record.

This could be the best Steely Dan album, and one of the best records in my (relatively small) vinyl collection. It’s not my favorite, but it’s right up there—as it’s a record that never stopped getting better—I mean, every time I put it on—since I first bought it in the vicinity of when it came out in 1976. At that point I did own their previous four LPs, and I remember my 16-year-old self finding this one a bit of a disappointment—not totally, of course—but it just took longer to connect—or maybe I was just through with SD, at that point. I lost patience with bands pretty fast—after a few records I was often done with them, and onto something new. Most bands I’d never come back to, once I was over them. For some reason, though, I came back to Steely Dan as an obsession—partly because of the way they age, compared with everything else—and partly it was just listening more closely, and paying attention to the lyrics. But still, this one did take me awhile.

The album cover didn’t help—being almost too hideous for me to consider any longer than it took for me to place it facing the wall. I have to force myself to look at it even now. Maybe it’s time to reconsider it. There’s a fully dressed man sleeping on some kind of a bench—and collaged above him—as if he’s dreaming them—four urban high-rises, the tops of which have morphed into hideous animal heads. I never really thought about how the creatures aren’t even remotely related—aside from their carnivorous jaws—one is all mouth (what we can see). One is a scaly, fanged serpent, and one looks like it could be in the large rodent family—I don’t know. What I’ve never noticed is the low-key one, top right—without its jaws wide—is rather cute—some kind of a large cat. Anyway, I always thought the sleeping guy was on a park bench—but it’s obviously an indoor resting spot—one of those long benches in the lobbies of big, old buildings, that probably has steam heat radiators underneath it—which might be contributing to the guy’s urban nightmares. The back cover is an extreme closeup of his socks and shoes—and we see that one of the soles is worn through. The inner sleeve has lyrics (extremely welcome with SD records!) and an odd, sepia tone photo of Becker and Fagen—their heads doubled, like a prism—presented in a small (6 inch tall) trapezoid shape. There’s a small, elite group who ever present anything in a trapezoid—so that’s kind of mysterious. It’s also, possibly, the coolest photo I’ve ever seen of Walter Becker. He was certainly, at one time, one of the more mysterious figures of pop music. Donald Fagen was, too (and still is), but here he looks like Tiny Tim.

Ahmad Jamal “Sun Set”

The first song, “If Not for Me,” starts out particularly understated—you know the song, so when he doesn’t even finish one of the phrases, your mind finishes it, but it’s supremely pleasing in that it denies your expectations, as well as fulfills your expectations. Then there’s a part where a couple of notes are repeated to the extent that if it was a CD, you’d be certain it was skipping, even though this record came out in 1976, and CDs were still on the drawing board, right? (I don’t remember anymore.) Well… certainly when it was recorded, over a decade earlier. But it doesn’t sound like a record skip—so I guess back then, it would probably just evoke a kind of weird but interesting repetition. I know nothing about jazz, really—despite listening to years and years of Phil Schaap’s radio shows—but you don’t necessarily need to know much to enjoy it. Of course, the more you know, the better. It’s kind of funny how opposite I feel about live jazz recordings and live rock recordings. I avoid the rock ones—I can think of very few I like—too much energy with nowhere to go, not to mention inane patter (could drugs have been a factor?) But for jazz, live recordings make perfect sense.

This is a double record—a repackaging from “Chess Jazz Master Series.” It’s put together by a guy named Dan Nooger, who wrote the liner notes. It’s a release of a couple of records that were live recordings from 1958 and 1961—nearly 30 songs. The personal is the same: Ahmad Jamal, piano; Israel Crosby, bass; Vernel Fournier, drums. So… these are recordings of live shows from just before I was born and just after I was born. And for whatever reason, this is music that connects with me like I was listening to nothing but this all my life. I wonder who decided to call it “Sun Set”—rather than “Sunset” or “Chess Set”—interesting. The cover is a picture of, I suppose, a sunset (though, I might have thought moonrise) over some mountains. It’s funny—the picture is roughly the aspect ratio of a movie—but the cover opens up, and then the picture, a landscape, continues onto the back—and becomes the aspect ratio of a CinemaScope movie. I don’t know if that was intentional or not—but I’ll take it.

I don’t know that much about Ahmad Jamal, but I have a couple of his LPs—that I was able to find without mortgaging anything. No doubt I’ll pick up another one. The Big Board says he’s currently 92 years old—and he was born the same year as my dad, in roughly the same geographical area, with partly the same name (he changed his name to Ahmad Jamal in 1950, when he converted to Islam). He started playing piano at the age of 3, and by now has been releasing records for seven decades or so. I suppose by listening to this record enough times I know quite a lot about him (and his bass player and drummer). Hearing a good musician’s music is a direct connection to them—I guess that’s partly why we feel so strongly about music. And for some reason, piano, more than anything else, strikes me as a direct connection to the musician’s mind. Piano was the first instrument I tried to play—and I guess it was the first time I can recall experiencing significant failure. But that didn’t turn me against the instrument, or people who play piano. I might always consider it my one true love.

David LaFlamme “White Bird”

This is another record I bought for two reasons only. One, because I never heard of it, the label (Amherst), or the artist. And B, it was $1. The year, 1976, doesn’t inspire my confidence, generally. Around that time, I was going to the record store in a somewhat more informed manner—I would read Rolling Stone magazine, and if there was a new release that a writer I liked said was good, I might buy it. Don’t remember this one. The cover is all white with a blue circle, in which two stylized white birds are crossing their beaks. What does it mean? One might reasonably fear something sinister, Satanic, or even worse. The guy on back, who we presume is David LaFlamme, looks like he could be a chef, or perhaps an actor in the theater, or a watercolor portraitist, or—in what isn’t much of a stretch, seeing how this is a record—a musician. In the musician credits, he’s: “violins (I don’t know if he plays two at once—I’ve heard it can be done), vocals.” Someone named “Dominique” is also listed for vocals. I don’t recognize anyone else (besides Tower of Power Horn Section!) except Mitchell Froom—who I heard a lot about awhile back as a musician and producer (keyboards and assistant producer here).

I might call this prog rock—not sure if that’s right—because there are long songs, and extended flights of complex, virtuosity-ridden, instrumental sections. Some of it, though, is a little closer to R&B based pop, and some more like jazz fusion, I guess—or simply “fusion”—which means nothing and covers a lot of bases. The songs are by LaFlamme (w/some co-writers). I can’t say I love it all—but I can actually listen to it without cringing, and some parts I really like a lot. What’s kind of cool is how much the violin adds to it whenever the violin comes in—it’s a pretty distinctive sound. It’s weird, within a single song, there will be a really compelling part, and then it’ll go off to wanky-wanky-land and lose me—I mean it’s kind of crazy how within a single song you’ll get a little R&B, some funk, some jazz, some pop, some prog—some totally hot section—followed by a bit that’s as flaccid as a leftover dinner salad tomorrow.

It’s a weird record, actually, it really is, but I’m telling you, 1976, even if it wasn’t a great year for music (massive generalization—plenty of great music that year) overall—it was a weird year—and not just for music—for everything. I guess I’m intrigued enough by the sound that I’m switching over to the lyrics a little (I’m always a listen-to-the-lyrics at-a-later-date person), but I’m not finding a whole lot that’s not about “love.” Well, there’s one about “America” (mixed with love)—worst song on the record. This was the Bicentennial, after all. And “White Bird” is about a bird, in its most literal sense—of course it must be metaphorical—maybe about how you need to express your creativity—if you’re stuck just working a desk job or something, you’ll die. Or maybe not literally die. Everyone dies. I’ve probably got that wrong. Maybe it’s about how a man can’t be held down by one woman. I don’t know. I guess “This Man” is my favorite on the record—it’s got an overblown into, and then goes into a very funky section, it’s a hot song. It’s about “movin’ on down the highway, lonely on the road, when you’re a superstar,” and so forth. It’s got some nice soloing in it, too—sounds like it could be violin and synth interplay, but what do I know. It’s enjoyable, and I don’t care for 90% of wanky solos—but this in nice.

Deodato “Very Together”

Eumir Deodato was cranking out the records in the Seventies—he strikes me as a guy who a lot of music came from his direction all the time. Maybe I’m wrong. I have one other—Prelude, from 1973, which I like better than this, but it’s close. This is from 1976. It starts out with “Peter Gunn theme,” which doesn’t thrill me—it’s an interesting version, but it’s hard to get past the familiarity of that tune. In my next lifetime, maybe I’ll warm up to it again. The next three songs on the first side are all great, and all Deodato compositions, as are the best two songs on the second side—one I particularly like, called “Juanita,” and one called “Univac Loves You.” Ha! There’s also an odd cover of “I Shot the Sheriff,” and a rendition of “Theme from Star Trek,” which I just put on while watching the opening of Star Trek (the original, it’s on every night at 7pm). Actually, this is an excellent record, and I’ve got to keep it in mind if I ever have a party ever again. Great party record! Also, probably good for cooking, painting the apartment, and making out. The title, “Very Together” strikes me as funny. Two simple words that sound awkward when combined… though maybe it’s some 1970s hipster expression I forgot or just never got. There is a photo of two bigger than life-size hands on the cover that are placed over an object that, for the life of me, I can’t identify. It’s probably obvious—maybe someone will fill me in. On the back is headshot of, I presume, Deodato that’s so huge you could imagine landing the LEM in one of his pores. I’ve got to remember to grab any more records I see by him—the two I have are excellent. They offer a unique and compelling soundtrack to anything worth gluing your eyeballs to.

Wild Cherry “Wild Cherry”

I remember this record all too well from when I was 16 because the hit, “Play That Funky Music,” was a number one hit single, on the radio, in the store, at parties—it would show up in places that you wouldn’t even imagine a song making its way to—the beach, the dentist, church. Well, we went to the Unitarian church by then, but that might be an exaggeration. The song’s chorus goes: “Play that funky music white boy”—which I guess illustrates that point the band are all white guys playing Black music. I found it annoying, at the time, mostly because of its ubiquity and repetition. We wanted to play punk rock, at parties, not this, and whenever we went to beer drinking, pot smoking parties, around that time, you would always see that distinctive album cover. It’s one of the classics—a white woman’s mouth biting on a very red cherry. It takes up the whole cover. The art department did their job. The cherry is way too maraschino, and way too big for a cherry—yet it’s obviously what it is: sex. The crucial thing, though, is that that lipstick is probably the world’s reddest lipstick—it’s most likely not even legal, at this point. A couple of the songs have a nice groove, but it’s mostly lukewarm—and I’d be happy to never hear the title track again. There’s a cover of “Nowhere to Run” that sounds more like Cherry and the Vanillas than Martha and the Vandellas. I may or may not have known, in 1976, that Wild Cherry was an Ohio band. Principal songwriter and lead singer Robert Parissi is from Mingo Junction, Ohio (I love that name)—river town, steel mill town—I bet there was a good diner there. And some serious drinking establishments where a funky white boy could get his ass kicked for no reason at all. How that leads to this—that’s what makes life interesting

Led Zeppelin “Presence”

I have a particular fondness for this album, for a lot of unconnected reasons—the first being, it was the first Led Zeppelin record I bought without already knowing way too much about it, as with “Led Zeppelin IV” (1971)—which had been played to death by that time, pretty much. Well, “Stairway to Heaven” was really played to death. They could have changed the title to “Played to Death.” For whatever reason, I’d ignored the two albums in between—and for whatever reason, I bought this one. Also, it came out just before I got my driver’s license, and I installed an 8-Track in my parents’ family car, and I made 8-Track mix tapes in this Pioneer 8-Track recorder (didn’t see many of those). The album cover (and inside cover) features 10 very silly photographs that with the correct weed might have come across as hilarious, or mysterious and profound. (Now, without the help of weed, they come across as nostalgic.) Also, no words whatsoever on the cover (or inside cover!), except on the spine. Not that that’s an original idea, but it still gave the “money guys” ulcers. Did Led Zeppelin worry about people thinking it might be a Genesis record, or an art calendar? They did not!

I appreciate that putting a 10 minute song that references a bad pun in Greek mythology first on an album really says, “Yeah, we don’t give a damn,” in an entirely 1976 rockstar excess way. I’m not crazy about the song, but I can listen to it, in the context of the album, especially in that it’s followed by a much shorter and heavier song, which is then followed by the almost punk/pop (by comparison) “Royal Orleans.” Side Two starts with “Nobody’s Fault But Mine,” a song I’ve always loved, though I didn’t find out until much later that it’s a Blind Willie Johnson song because, apparently not giving a fuck, they happily take credit. I mean, I’m all for theft and all, and naturally it’s much different—they added some words to make it more blatantly about heroin. But it’s fun to look back, since you can do that now at the drop of a hat, and listen to the Blind Willie Johnson version, as well as other renditions—there’s an excellent one by Nina Simone. Then there’s “Candy Store Rock,” a fine song, and then my favorite song on the record, “Hots On for Nowhere”—which I didn’t give much thought to for a long time—then I heard it in a movie (I think that skateboarding movie)—and it struck me, “That’s a great song!” And it is a killer song, even now, a hundred years later. The last song, then, is a 10-minute blues dirge called “Tea for One,” which is about time dragging—inviting derisive comparisons between the subject matter and the song itself—but do they worry about being an easy target for rock critics? They seriously do not.

Parliament “The Clones of Dr. Funkenstein”

“Funk is its own reward.” “May frighten you.” I think someone speaks those words, in a kind of intro, or did I just imagine that? There’s a giant list of credits that reads like a funk all-star band, so I’m not sure who is doing what on any song, but I assume there’s a lot of George Clinton. There’s a couple of short songs, then the epic song, “Dr. Funkenstein,” which is a fairly slow, laconic, extremely funky whole-world of a song, with a chanted chorus and voices coming in from all over the place, speaking, singing, stream-of-consciousness. There is this pretty simple but genius repetitive guitar part that runs through it that I just want as the theme song for my life. The song is six minutes, but I wish it was a lot longer. I never do this, but I’m going to buy this song for my computer (sometimes I listen to music there, at home, when I’m not playing records) so I can just play this on repeat for hours. It’s like a TV show theme song, or a whole TV show, or movie. This record came out in 1976, and I may have heard it at a party, but probably not. I was in the phase of progressing directly from prog-rock to punk rock, but I missed the boat here. A few years later, one of the funniest and most offensive punk records I’ve ever heard, Black Randy and the Metrosquad’s “Pass the Dust, I Think I’m Bowie,” has songs that just lift directly from Dr. Funkenstein. I don’t know why, exactly, but I just keep listening and listening to this song. With all the sound effects, and odd vocals—spoken parts, some in annoying cartoon voices, some in frog-voice—stuff that would normally get on my nerves—but here it sounds like a symphony of good insanity. All of the songs on this record are good, including one of those super-long-title ones, “I’ve Been Watching You (Move Your Sexy Body),” and “Let’s Funk Around,” which exploits that tireless and seemingly inexhaustible tradition of using the word “funk” in place of the word “fuck.” The cover (front and back) is also first-rate, with members of the band, presumably, dressed for the stage, or the lab, in some kind of a 1970s television sci-fi set, a good one. I remember looking at a partial discography for Parliament—just the list of titles from the Seventies—all just excellent, mysterious titles. I wonder if these are easy to find—I mean, not for hipster prices, normal person prices—I’ll keep an eye out for them. It’s like a crime against my sensibility that I don’t own any Parliament Funkadelic vinyl.

Tangerine Dream “Stratosfear”

I’m pretty sure I used to have this 1976 Tangerine Dream record and was not too crazy about it, so it’s worth revisiting—perhaps I have grown mature, or electronic, or German, or mellow, or nostalgic. The front and back and inside images are some photo-collage nonsense that is embarrassingly dated. The first song, “Stratosfear” sounds really familiar, like maybe it was used in a movie soundtrack or maybe soundtrack music has been directly inspired by this. I can see some wintery, European landscape with an expensive car traveling over desolate roads that should be beautiful, but because of this music and the the exaggerated blue color temperature of the scene we understand that something tragic either just happened or is about to. It seems like half, or more, of the movies I see are incredibly, annoyingly blue—and my theory about this is that it’s because of the current pharmaceutical landscape in which we live. I thought about this while working at a recent grocery store job where the workers (the ones who didn’t get “laid off”) worked with a seemingly speed-fueled intensity—in spite of their being NO coffee offered in the workplace—and very little coffee brought in from outside, even. Which led me to think about all the people who are diagnosed with ADHD, etc. and are prescribed Adderall, etc. and are essentially like speed freaks all the time. I don’t know this, but it would explain a lot. So, likewise, I’m thinking, with so many people on anti-depressants, maybe this has caused an overall shift in the acceptable color temperature of commercial cinema—in order to just look “normal”—it has to be very, very blue.

The first side is astoundingly under 15 minutes long (the second is closer to 20, but still…) aren’t these progressive rock guys famous for really long songs and albums? Maybe I’m just thinking of Genesis, whose records were always like 60 minutes long. But come on, it’s not like anyone is working up a sweat here, it’s just kind of programmed and then it trickles along like a 1970s movie (that you can’t believe was allowed to take its time like that, and would never happen today). But come on, guys, a lot of trees died so this album cover could open up to reveal the letters “TD” 24 inches wide (and a photo-collaged, little, black and white, blond, German kid as big as your fingernail). Side two is so quiet and low-key I think it would only work on that original, really good LSD I’ve heard about—and playing through tube amplifiers the size of a VW, and Altec-Lansing “Voice of the Theater” speakers that would turn the 1812 Overture into a weapon of mass destruction—but here functions to expose the subtlety that is necessary for this record to make any sense at all.