Mark Eitzel “Hey Mr Ferryman”

I admire when someone has all the records by their favorite artist(s)—they’re that kind of a fan—as well as going to great lengths to see them live. As much as I love the music of quite a few—I don’t have all of it by anyone—I’m neither that deep-pocketed nor dedicated—even though I do consider myself a fanatic (when it comes to music I love). I’m not even going to count up the releases by Mark Eitzel or his former band, American Music Club—but I have a hodgepodge, incomplete collection—digital, CD, cassette, and very limited vinyl. I used to have all the early AMC albums—another casualty of moving, I guess. I don’t listen to him all the time—you have to be in the proper mood—but then, I don’t listen to anyone regularly—it’s always mini-periods of obsession—or else whenever my random system calls on me to write something—and that’s the case today. And I rarely see anyone live anymore—can’t tolerate bars, or crowds—and crowded bars—no. But imagine, if you will, an opportunity arises to see your favorite artist (one who has the unique quality of being very different live and on record—but taking both to some kind of singular extreme). And the show is affordable, on the bus line, and limited to an intimate group of sane people—in someone’s living room. That transpired, a few years back, not long after this 2017 record came out—if I remember correctly. Part of a unique touring system put on by a collective called Undertow—how does this even work? I mean, some acts are too popular, too loud, too avaricious—won’t work. And I’m sure some audiences would find this kind of thing weird (for me, I’d pay just to visit the living rooms!)—but where there’s a sweet spot, I guess—the fans benefit. I was kind of shocked it worked with Mark Eitzel, as the last time I’d seen him was with a band at a good-sized theater. And he is, after all, currently the best working songwriter of popular music out there (that’s my opinion, but you’re free to agree). Also, I (as a person who is decidedly not a concertgoer) have seen him about once a decade, starting with the late Seventies. Can that even be? Those shows were all unique and memorable. He’s maybe overly attuned to the audience—he feels volatile—and like you could potentially alter the very show by your audience presence/honest reaction. He’s also personable, inspiring, and as funny (I’m not saying like a clown) as anyone—often hilarious as he is heartbreaking.

Now, as far as this record—it’s so-so as an object—but I’m just not crazy about contemporary vinyl—why? As a generalization—too expensive, too heavy, too thick, no liner notes, uninspiring visually—and that includes the minimalist labels. But I’m happy I bought this one—it’s an inspired collection of ten songs that I’m still trying to get a handle on. I won’t compare it to other Eitzel and AMC releases (but it’s right up there). I’m going to approach it—right now—in a way that’s fun for me—song by song. I’m not, however, going to list the names of the songs (or quote the lyrics, exactly). 1. The “Ferryman” in question doesn’t take long to make an appearance—the catchiest song on the record—but he’s taking the singer to his rest—which means? Not good. Or maybe at peace? 2. Next is the prettiest (and saddest) song on the record—and he is addressing that you—who—I think—seems to be beyond reach. I’ve already noticed that the sung lyrics don’t match exactly to the lyric sheet… which I find… kind of exciting. Not even close. 3. Another bar, and more hopelessness. 4. This next one, I think, a beautiful song about love—but love is never mentioned—though a chain is mentioned… a lot. 5. A really grim song about gambling—whether literally, or gambling as a metaphor—does it matter? Kind of left me on the ledge, but… side two is sure to… 1. Well, this first one is devastating. And it’s also really, really funny. But devastating. When someone says how can you go on, it doesn’t usually refer to the second song on side two of a record. But I go on. 2. Mr. Humphries appears to be a specific reference that I don’t know—but want to, because he seems singularly heroic, the way the song builds, then reduces to near nothing, then builds again, very emotional. 3. Another disturbing reference I don’t get (and feel like I should—yikes) (no internet)—but it makes for a blood, wine, more blood, rocker.  4. A love song—when was the last time someone asked me if I believed in love? Seemed to stop after a while—but maybe that’s not everyone’s experience—so, yeah… refer to this song. (Interesting, there’s a song on the lyric sheet that’s not on the record. Really good lyrics, too—well, it’s out there, somewhere.) 5. One more—a lullaby. And that last verse! After all that utter devastation, he gives us this last, quiet, poem—to continue to stumble along with.

Michael Franks “One Bad Habit”

Initially, this one almost scared me away, as the record starts with the song, “Baseball”, which starts with a wailing, groaning guitar, and features a chorus that goes, “Love is just like baseball,” etc. Well… when I think about, I can’t really argue with that—and the rest of the song is pretty smooth and low-key, with some pretty funny lyrics. The album cover would have been enough to scare me away (thirty-something Michael Franks wearing an eggplant sweater and Levi’s in a locker room, in front of an open locker)—it’s a funny photo, but does a locker room ever look compelling? Also worrying, the year it came out, 1980, which is past the date I’m willing to take chances on. But I bought it with no hesitation because once I heard Michael Franks’ 1976 record The Art of Tea (which I bought on a whim, not expecting anything—I’d never heard of him) I set out to buy anything and everything I could find—and he’s got a few releases, about 18 original LPs, now—though I’m not sure how many are on vinyl—I’ve found seven, so far, and a few others via digital formats. One of my favorites, Time Together, is from 2011—as far as I can tell, he’s had a remarkably consistent half-century career. Every song of his—that I’ve heard—sounds like a Michael Franks song—he’s written a lot of amazing songs, and his singing is very distinctive.

Had I come across this record the year it came out, when I was 20, I don’t think I’d have been into it. It’s to some degree “smooth jazz”—and on the surface it’s certainly smooth, also fairly mellow, and even slick, as all the musicians are top rate. But when you listen closely, and particularly to the lyrics, it’s far from mellow, as the songs are mostly ultra-catchy, and the lyrics go from goofy to clever to wise. Great lyrics from Michael Franks. This record turns out to be a particularly good one—all nine songs are very good. I don’t even want to single any out (well, okay—“On My Way Home To You” is my favorite, at this listening). But I like them all. It’s funny, after that initial (somewhat) bad impression, it’s smooth sailing for the rest of the way. Did I mention that the back cover is even scarier than the front cover? I won’t mention it. I do hope my random record review picking device turns up some more Michael Franks, soon. I also hope I can find more on vinyl. I’m determined to find them all, one way or another. In the last two years—in which I’ve needed to hear music that both made me calm and stimulated me intellectually, Michael Franks and Donald Fagen have been my favorites. It’s not like I’m obsessed or anything—too old for that—but I’m very happy to have music to search out.

Joy of Cooking “Closer to the Ground”

I had never heard of this band, and the cover—a stoner painting of an easy chair in the woods—didn’t exactly say, “buy me,” but the back cover—a full-sized photo of five hippies—pretty much dated it (1971)—and that’s a good date. Three men and two women, and not Fleetwood Mac. I was expecting the worst hippie folk imaginable, but figured it was worth checking out. A band name like “Joy of Cooking” could mean you have songs about making bread and lentils, or it could be a major drug reference, or it could mean, as band, you cooked, you got down, you rocked out. To my delight, for the most part, the latter is the case. I mean, there are still plenty of hippie folk elements, but even that’s not always a bad thing, and sometimes a good thing. Some of the songs are pretty hard, and some are soulful. It’s not Janis Joplin, but then, who is? There are a lot of musical influences, and the songs are kind of all over the place, kind of hard to pin down, and I don’t mind that at all. It’s a record worth listening to a few times, and what I hear of the lyrics, initially, is also intriguing. Actually, as I listen more… some really good lyrics. So, it turns out the songs, vocals, guitars, and keyboards are by the two women in the band, Toni Brown and Terry Garthwaite. This is their second LP, and from what I read, personnel has changed since the band formed (in Berkeley)—but it’s Toni and Terry’s band.

There’s seriously a lot of interesting stuff going on here. I’m kind of surprised they weren’t a much bigger band—but then, they are on a major label, and I bet they have their enduring fans. I’m going to check out the lyrics more, now. The record folds open, and there are lyrics and black and white photos inside. Also, there’s a separate lyric sheet—I’m confused for a moment, then realize it’s to their first record. No doubt some shelving confusion with the record’s previous owner. Maybe that means I should make a point of finding their first record. Anyway, not much about lentils or bread, and as a band, they do pretty much cook. One song in particular stands out like a sore thumb, or should I say, the opposite. There are not any bad songs, but this one, called, “Sometimes Like a River (Loving You)” was somebody’s (Toni Brown’s) very good day on the songwriting magic path—it’s so good, it’s the song when the record is over, you go back and play that one again. I may be wrong (1971 was a weird-ass time), but I’m guessing when they played live, this was the song where a few notes in, the audience would be hooping a hollering, people would get up to dance, people would sing along—that love-making thing between the band and the audience. Excellent lyrics, too, check out this line: “Sometimes like a new wind you touch my hand / And I can feel the sudden pleasure in not knowing.” That makes me want to cry. I feel like I’m being kind of annoying, loving one song so much more than the others, but then, for me, songs are what it’s all about. All songs were not created equal. Everyone knows that, but we tend to forget it when we’re bored on uninspired. It takes a truly excellent song to remind you that, yes, music is the best thing there is, better than love, sex, hash brownies, and even bank accounts.

Michael Franks “The Art of Tea”

I had never heard of Michael Franks, saw this record in a thrift store and bought it against my better judgment. The picture on the cover, of him, doesn’t tell you much, unless it tells you this record is 1975. There are some familiar names playing on this record: Wilton Felder, Joe Sample, Larry Carlton, and more, and I’m listening to it as I look for him on the Internet. He’s a jazz singer/songwriter; all the songs here are his, and there are lyrics on the back, and there’s some good ones. On second listening the record is already growing on me. I like his voice a lot—it’s equal parts a little odd and way smooth. He’s been putting out albums pretty regularly since 1973, and he’s got a website, looking pretty good, now in his seventies, and still playing. Don’t know why I’ve never heard of him. One song here, “Popsicle Toes,” I’ve heard before—I believe done by Diana Krall. How about these lyrics from that song: “You must have been Miss Pennsylvania/With all this pulchritude/How come you always load your Pentax/When I’m in the nude?” Or how about this one, called “Eggplant”: “When my baby cooks her eggplant/She don’t read no book/And she’s got a Gioconda/Kind of dirty look/And my baby cooks her eggplant/About 19 different ways/But sometimes I just have it raw/With mayonnaise.” In the lyric department, he’s definitely got it going on, at least here in 1975. And did I say that the whole record is smooth?—something that might have put me off at one time, but now I’m into it.