Vern Gosdin “Never My Love”

Since I’m obsessed with the Addrisi Brothers song, “Never My Love,” I’ll pick up any record with that song, including by the Addrisi Brothers (twice)—and including this one—the album is even named after it. So, I guess you could say the song sold me this record (I mean, not a lot of cabbage changed hands)—rather than the star—that’s often the way it works, with me, with older records. I look at the songs, and songwriters, and then maybe I discover some singer I never knew about. It turns out that Vern Gosdin is a big name in Nashville—he was known as country music’s “The Voice” (I’m trusting the close-internet, here) which would kind of make him like a parallel of Sinatra, at least nickname-wise. (His eyes, on the cover photo, do appear blue, but who knows.) It’s often said that Sinatra has no peer, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a parallel. Well, Vern Gosdin does have an excellent, deep, country music singing voice. Lots and lots of singles, including some Country Number Ones—mostly in the Seventies and Eighties. This LP is from 1978, the year I graduated from high school—definitely before I because a country music fan. It’s a fine version of “Never My Love”—and there’s some other very good songs, like “When I Need You,” and, “I Sure Can Love You” (all of Side One is excellent). Also, “Forget Yesterday,” and “Something’s Wrong in California” (it’s hard to go wrong with a title like that).

A subtly weird album cover. You might not even notice it (as being weird, or at all)—it’s dark, earth-tone, brown—Vern Gosdin looks like he’s lit by a yellowing streetlamp. It looks like he’s peeking out of a doorway, wearing a dark suit and a loud shirt with an enormous collar—or maybe two jackets, one with a massive lapel. The weird thing is, the “doorway” (if that’s what it is) is slanted, like on a 70-degree (estimate, I don’t have a protractor) angle. So, it’s like he’s in an Indiana Jones set, or a Batman villain’s hideout. The back cover—same photo, but he’s looking off to the left, as if at someone making a comment. (Like, “…or are you just happy to see me?”) Or else, meant to show off his profile—highlighting his sideburn and schnoz. And the subtly oddest thing—barely in the shadows, below, it looks like his hand’s in his pocket (you can make out some loud sleeve)… but a thumb is protruding—which looks an awful lot like he’s doing that old gag where you put your hand down your pants and stick a finger out the open zipper in order to resemble… you know. I’m not saying he’s doing this—and it would be very weird (though kind of brilliant) if he was—but other record buyers, other than myself, over the years, must have made this same observation, over the years. This oddity alone (and a nice, listening record) makes me a new fan of Vern Gosdin.

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.

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

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

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

Michael McDonald “That Was Then, The Early Recordings of Michael McDonald”

The title says it all, I guess—what this 1982 compilation contains. The song listings on the back cover are in two groups—the first says: “previously released as singles,” and the remaining four songs say: “previously unreleased.” You all know Michael McDonald. I have to say, there was a time when I wasn’t a fan of the guy because I felt like he was the more “commercial” side of the Doobie Brothers—not that he ruined the band or anything—I didn’t care, I was already over them once I started listening to punk rock, I suppose. But as the years go by and I’m less tolerant of generic blues-based rock and more appreciative of the subtleties of mellower sounds and all forms of soul influenced pop, I’ve come around to Michael McDonald. And he is a fine singer. Not to mention his major contributions on Steely Dan records. This is a nice, listenable collection—my favorite songs tend to be the slower, quieter ones like: “It Don’t Matter Now,” “When I’m Home,” “I Think I Love You Again,” and “Dear Me.” The album cover resembles one of those repackaged cassettes you’d buy at truck-stops, a real cheapo look, crap fonts, liner notes on the front, and very little credit info other than producer and string arrangements. The nearly abstract illustration on front, MM at a piano, from the back, is kind of nice, but the way it’s framed by large swaths of an ugly clay-red color makes it look like packaging for home goods or something—not a work of beauty or art. But sometimes with records, they’re just really ugly—so you’ve got to keep an open mind, because occasionally that’s where you might find some rarities and gems, like here. I’ll definitely be putting this one on—next date night.

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!

Jefferson Airplane “Crown of Creation”

Not having ever heard this album, I don’t think, I was alarmed when the first song transported me right back to my Renaissance Faire days, and besides that has goofy sound effects—though the typewriter is nice. After that, though, the record sounds like Jefferson Airplane, inasmuch as I have an idea of what the band sounds like in my relatively limited exposure to them (I never was a big fan, though I’ve always liked them. But I didn’t have any of their records, growing up). The album cover apparently did not register with me because I accidentally bought a copy when I already had one. It’s funny, they are both worn out in exactly the same way—looking like they were stuck tightly in the same Peaches crate since 1968. There’s a photo of the band huddled in the middle of what looks like a nuclear explosion, though for whatever reason, my brain registered the whole thing as a semi-abstract rendering of a giant chicken head. Also, funny, the photo of the band is altered (and there’s a larger version on back) so it looks like you’re seeing double (funny in light of me buying two of them).

It’s a good record, so I’d be happy to give my extra copy to someone—and I also plan on listening to mine, on occasion, which is, from me, a five-star review. I love their style and their sound—I kind of regret I didn’t buy all their records as a lad. An interesting thing occurred to me, during one particularly laid-back song, and it echoed a thought I had the other day while listening to some hippie folk blues rock (can’t remember what), and that was how I heard a spot that noticeably lagged a bit—that is, there was not that mechanical adherence to time that you hear with music that’s recorded on a digital grid, or however it’s done, now. A little messy, a little lazy, a little intoxicated—I don’t know, but 100% human and soulful. When I’m walking around, hearing music that’s enforced seemingly everywhere, I often find myself getting irritated—not because I recognize it or don’t (I don’t, usually)—why? Maybe it’s because it’s made by machines more than it’s made by humans, I don’t know. Anyway, it would be nice to hear a song from this record in the mall, someday (though maybe not “The House at Pooneil Corners”—unless you’re shopping for survival supplies). Actually, I’d love to hear that at the mall.

Frank Sinatra “Come Fly with Me”

One of those Sinatra records that make me think that if Sinatra didn’t exist in real life, he would have been a great invention by a writer and/or an artist—or a team of them. A TV show, comic, movie, comic book, etc. The album cover is perfect—a naturalistic color illustration of Frank in as sharp suit, hat, casual tie, giant cufflinks—dressed for international air travel—and he’s taking the hand of woman—we only see her hand, but I’d guess she’s attractive. They’re on the tarmac of an airport—when you used to venture outside, and up the portable steps to the airplane. In the background we see a TWA plane, the “stewardess” exiting, and further back another plane—one of those big prop planes with three tail fins (the back of the cover tells me it’s the TWA Jetstream Super Constellation). No artist credit on back. The sky shows some clouds near the horizon, but most of it is the bluest blue imaginable. Twelve songs, all pop standards that could stretch into a traveling theme. I like all of them, and they fit together well—my favorites are: the title song, “Moonlight in Vermont,” “Autumn in New York,” “Let’s Get Away from it All,” “April in Paris” (with the intro), “Brazil,” “Blue Hawaii,” and “It’s Nice to Go Trav’ling.” (I’m gonna spell it that way from now on!) The art on the back cover uses some (apparently) actual airline charts and documents, over which there’s an artist’s rendition of some pilot paraphernalia, including a logbook, on which it says: “Pilot: Frank Sinatra” and “Co-Pilot: Billy May” (the bandleader). And there’s a compass, the pointy kind for measuring distances on the charts. There’s also a clipboard with a “Flight Log” that’s got some “handwritten” air-travel related notes about six of the tunes. On the bottom it says: “(over)”—but of course, we can’t turn it over—it’s just a drawing! I suppose you’re invited to write your own.

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

Jackie Gleason “Lonesome Echo”

There is some crazy string shit going on—which should say it all—but for a more eloquent variation of that assessment, I’ll quote the liner notes on back: “…an exotic string combination: mandolins, ’cellos, and domras (richer, deeper mandolins), augmented by guitars and marimba.” Seeing how ol’ Salvador Dali is involved in this escapade, and I never heard of domras, I figured they might be imaginary—but I looked ’em up, nonetheless, on Emerac, and naturally it is an instrument. But this next part must be from the surreal dreamscape: it claims that throughout the record the featured solo instrument is “the rare oboe d’amour…” That’s got to be rich. But, no, that’s a real thing too—a slightly larger oboe—“whose melancholy tone is hauntingly displayed in each of these favorite selections.” By none less than Romeo Penque—believe it or else. The entire album flows together like a night of haunted dreams, but there’s some standout tracks, as well. Just the ones I immediately recognize include: “I Don’t Know Why,” “Deep Purple” (my very favorite on the record), “Come Rain or Come Shine,” “How Deep is the Ocean,” “A Garden in the Rain,” and “Dancing on the Ceiling” (a song featured in my upcoming dystopian novel). As with all the “Jackie Gleason presents…” mood music LPs, this one is long—no less than eight tracks per side. You may even be able to get to third base before having to flip the record.

Besides the striking concoction of stringed and woodwind oddities, the unique collaboration on this 1955 record is the endorsement of, as I mentioned above, artist Salvador Dali, who has provided the album cover. This is absolutely one of those records you’d buy for the cover alone, if that is something you do. I’ve been guilty of it myself, though I don’t normally endorse the idea—plus, I listen to everything, at least once. The nice thing here is that the cover matches the music exquisitely. It’s probably a well-known one, and you can spot it a mile away (or from across the Goodwill). It’s a barren landscape with a butterfly (or moth) on the end of a cane (or spear) in the foreground, which casts a long shadow on a stone ruin (or a Taco Bell). There is a seashell in the foreground, indicating that we’re near the seashore (or else a desert that used to be the sea, eons ago). Then far-off, there’s a woman wearing an exotic red robe, leaving us (already far enough away, possibly, to be but a memory). And then, beyond her, a mandolin (or is it a lute? I don’t think it’s a domra). If the perspective is to be believed (and why should it be, this is surrealism), the instrument is the size of a small boat. We should not overlook, as well, the shadow sneaking up behind us, on the left, which I might guess is of the artist himself, except there is no telltale Dali moustache in shadow, which leads me to believe it’s Jackie Gleason (though rather thin—but then it is a shadow). The photo of the two of them on back reminds me that I’d love to see a TV show where they drive around the country (or the world) in an open-roof roadster, stopping off at hamburger drive-ins and root beer stands (or local variations). If they unearth those reels from the vaults, I’ll never miss an episode.

The Mamas and the Papas “People Like Us”

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.