A promo 45 on Mega Records from 1973. (On the Mega label, above the name, there’s a little graphic that I’m inclined to file as: “I have no idea what that is.” A window AC unit? But how would that make any sense? A robot? Hell if I know!) Anyway, a popular Nashville country & western singer, Ray Pillow (his real name!) passed away just a year ago. I nabbed this record sometime before that, knowing only that Ray Pillow is a great handle, and a song called “The Waitress” has got to be a classic—and hopefully includes coffee. Both of these songs might be on LPs— “The Waitress” is on his 1972 album, “Slippin’ Around with Ray Pillow.” (That is a great title.) “The Waitress” is an excellent song, corny as it is, with some really difficult rhymes (I mean, difficult in terms of degree of difficulty—but RP gives it go). And also, downhome wisdom—“She learned to be a waitress by sittin’ home waitin’ on me.” It’s an epic to be certain, and in 2:21, mind you. I mean, this song travels from Texas to Tennessee—and all the states in between, including the state of grace that can only be known by that angel known as… the waitress. That’s not an actual line from the song, but you get the idea. One can easily find both the lyrics and the song on internet—but I’ve just got to quote this one: “And her coffee tastes better ’cause she serves it with that married woman style.” Amazing. “She Knows What Love Can Do” is the slower one, a sad song, also about a woman who has been on the crap side of romance and love—but is he blaming “love” exactly? (See: title of this song, which is also the last line of the chorus.) Or her “lover,” essentially? Hard to tell—this song gets in and out in about 2:27—fastest I’ve ever been confused. But it’s a beautiful song, and that’s all that matters.
Posts Tagged ‘Nashville
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.
The title of this 1972 three-artist compilation is somewhat misleading—you might think the three in question, stranded in a lifeboat, making music with a beat-up guitar, improvised percussion, and three voices blending as one—but actually, it’s three songs by each of the three—none of them in the same room. One wants to imagine they shared a stage together at some point, but I don’t know. Very different sounds here, artist to artist, song to song, but they do all have that old country and western feeling and Nashville flavor, so why not. I’m fine with the two guys, but I’ll admit that the reason I bought this record is my obsession with Sammi Smith—I’ll buy everything by her I see—and her three songs here were worth picking it up. But while I’m at it, it’s a good chance to hear some other music—and I do like it all. One wonders just where a lot of the popular radio country music of today has gone wrong. But no more complaining, or searching essays on popular culture, today. Happy Friday. Just this record.
My favorite of the Freddie Hart offerings is the oddball sad song “I’ll Hit It with a Stick”—in the chorus, background singers go: “Here comes that memory…” and then FH adds “I’ll hit it with a stick.” I mean, when you think about it, of all the ways you battle unwanted thoughts—pushing them aside, confronting them head-on, diluting them with good thoughts or good bourbon—hitting the memory with a stick is a new one for me. Maybe there’s a Biblical precedent I don’t know about. Jerry Reed was in a lot of movies—I kind of remember him—a convincing character actor. I like his voice a lot. The three numbers here are upbeat, jaunty, the kind of songs I’d imagine hearing in a honkytonk just before getting my ass kicked. “I’ve Got Everybody Fooled (But Me)” is my standout. We then get to the Sammi Smith songs—nothing against those guys—but she’s why I’m here—her voice in “Sand Covered Angels” is saying one thing, while the words (“a box full of kittens”) is saying another—sentimentally cut with sadness. Now, “He Went a Little Bit Farther” is a bit of a foreboding song title—and it is, especially if you’re the dude being addressed by SS here—you can’t really argue with her—you can’t help being in love with her—but you just got the shit-end of the stick. (“Don’t blame him for stealing me/you let him.”) You can probably guess what “Topless” is about, and it’s funny. And it sounded fun to record. There is some particularly hot guitar noodling on this one (as well as a compelling organ part)—I wonder if I can find out who played on it? No dice. I don’t recommend making a Google-search, unless you’re on the “safe” settings.
John Wesley Ryles “Shine On Me”
I’ve heard the title track, “Shine On Me (The Sun Still Shines When It Rains)”—it must have been a hit. A terrible song. No, it’s okay, very poppy, very light—I suppose one of the catchiest on the album. I have absolutely no idea why I have this record—I never heard of John Wesley Ryles—and it’s from 1978—everything after 1974 is pretty much a red flag, unless you know better. It’s a country record, but you wouldn’t know it from the cover—maybe goin’ for crossover. It’s got an absolutely hideous cover—front and back, airbrushed blue sky with clouds. And then a 7 by 5 ½ inch photo of J.W. Ryles with an airbrushed sun in the corner—and either he’s got space alien level complexion or his face is airbrushed as well. Airbrush artist workin’ overtime! He’s got a cool looking jacket, and you can barely make out the edge of a guitar—so it looks like (if you’re not thinkin’ guitar) like there’s a random piece of wood there. The credits make out that he’s a Nashville guy, I guess. Should I look him up? He’s still a young man—been in the business for decades. He had a hit song, “Kay,” when he was 17, so he’s been dealing’ with that for a lifetime. It’s interesting, normally you’d think this would be a songwriter’s record, but he only wrote one, here—“Next Time”—which happens to be the best song on the album (or second best—see below). Seventy percent of the songs were written or co-written by Terry Skinner, who is also recording engineer (but not a credited musician). Funny place, Nashville. Most of his songs are too peppy for me—though “Cry No More My Lady” is quite nice. He does have a theme going—I mean, besides love gone wrong—there’s a lot of sun and rain references—including storm sound effects on “All Day Rain”—a pretty good song. “Kay” ends the record—I presume a newer version of it—it’s a story song, with enough key changes to get you down the Ohio River high and dry. A bit of a “star is born” story. My favorite song on the record is a cover of the Gerry and the Pacemakers song, “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying”—that’s just an excellent song—and Ryles is a fine singer—does it a good turn.
“I’m comin’ home to you one barstool at a time,” is the one-line chorus. It’s got such a gnarly sound, I can’t make out all the lyrics—the record looks like maybe he had it with him on his journey, maybe using it as a coaster—but the idea is, he keeps drinking, inching from barstool to barstool, getting up the nerve to go home to “you.” The world is reduced to a bar, some wine, and what can’t be a healthy relationship. I don’t know why I find country songs about barstools and drinking so romantic when I hate bars and I don’t drink. It’s a good sign that I’m an idiot, I guess. “I’ve just left the scene of my latest sin,” is the chorus of the B-side—it’s a little slower, sadder, regretful—but it’s about cheatin’. James O’Gwynn, from Mississippi, cranked out the country records in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. This 45 is from 1969, on the STOP label (logo in the shape of a stop sign). Wouldn’t it be cool if they made their seven-inch singles in an octagon shape? (The grooves still in a circle, of course.) For the bit of unused vinyl wasted, it would have been a great gimmick—people’d still be talkin’ ’bout that marketing folly/coup. Wait… maybe someone did do that? An exhaustive search (five minutes) on the internet, and I found a hexagon shaped record—so an octagon wouldn’t surprise me. STOP Records—outta Nashville—released a bajillion records (accurate count), so I’m guessing the idea came up at more than a few board meetings—and maybe they even did it. But I’ve spent too much time in this bar already.
Sandy Posey “Single Girl”
Sandy Posey must have sold a lot of records in the late Sixties, because I’ve had no trouble finding inexpensive copies of them—the problem is, Sandy Posey fans listened to these records to death—they are always well-worn. I had a copy of this one, from 1966, earlier, but it was so warped as to be almost unplayable, so I eventually got rid of it. This copy plays okay but it’s so scratchy it sounds like someone used it as a soup tureen. I don’t mind the sound of scratchiness so much, but at this level of scratchiness it makes me feel like it’s doing my stylus grievous bodily harm. It’s such a good record, though, I’ll keep an eye out for yet another copy. I guess she had some big hits at around the time this came out—her first or second album—and so she had the good fortune of recording with some very good Nashville studio musicians and having the pick of some really great songs—sometimes a bit backwards lyrically—but all catchy and beautiful songs. That goes for the other Sandy Posey records I’ve heard as well. The songs, production, and performances fall into this area I like that’s, I guess, at the intersection of country, pop, and early rock’n’roll—kind of the area Skeeter Davis inhabited sometimes—and there is that record I have that’s SP on one side and SD or the other—and it’s a good one. I like all twelve songs on this record, but if I had to pick favorites they’d be: “Single Girl,” “Hey Mister,” “Patterns,” “The Last Day of Love,” “Shattered,” “Don’t Touch Me,” “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now),” and “I’m Your Puppet” (when considered ironically). Also, the album cover is the best of hers I’ve seen—she’s got a pretty menacing expression and is wearing a cadet blue trench coat with the collar turned up. Her monumental hairdo gives her an extra eight inches, easily. The background is blurred out, but she’s definitely standing next to an iron gate and a stone wall—giving the impression that she’s either just outside of a prison—or a factory that’s one step down from a prison. I suppose the idea here might be illustrating Single Girl—and the primary reason she’s single is because her dude’s locked up without much chance of parole. Or, if you want a darker take, seeing how “Single Girl” could be interpreted as an ode to prostitution, maybe she’s the one on the wrong side of the law.
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.
“What can you say about Charley Collins?” That’s what it says on the back of this 1974 LP on the Royal American label. It goes on to say he came to Nashville in 1967, and lists the people he played with, some big names in country music. The black and white cover has that flash-photo crime look, kind of harsh. I presume it’s Charley Collins—he’s wearing a suit and tie and is sitting on an iron bench, painted white—taken outdoors at night. He looks like he might be your pastor, or high school principal. I put it on, not expecting much, because I’m not a fan of bluegrass music, sorry to say—but by the second song, this record has won me over. Even though it’s jaunty and twangy, as bluegrass music is, it immediately gets to me—I guess there’s just a realness to it, and a soul, that I can hear right through my speakers. I guess what’s not so important is the kind of music you like, or your preconceived “standards”—what really matters is the music itself, and you might find yourself in love with any music, even that which you don’t understand.
I especially like the songs with singing, which is Charley, along with J.T. Grey, and “Oswald.” There are credits on the back, along with eight small photos of the musicians on this record, in the studio. As far as I can tell, they’re all first-rate. I notice there is a signature, in black pen, “Oswald”—under the photo of Pete “Oswald” Kirby. It’s signed, nice! So I looked this guy up—he was also known as “Bashful Brother Oswald” (born, Beecher Ray Kirby), a musician from Tennessee who popularized the use of resonator guitar and Dobro. He played with Roy Acuff (as did Charley Collins) and was a session musician. I got that from the, you know, internet. He did record a couple of solo records, apparently, so I’ll keep an eye out for them, as well as more by Charley Collins. I mean, I have no idea where I got this one, even. It’s like someone breaks into my apartment at night and puts them in with the other records, which, I suppose, is better than the other way around.
Mickey Newbury “The Sailor”
I probably mentioned this before—I heard a Mickey Newbury song on the radio, never had heard of him, so kind of got obsessed with him, then bought half a dozen records—none of which stood up to that song (or the memory of it). Still, he’s an interesting guy, a successful Nashville songwriter and recording artist, without being a big star. I suppose fans of his consider him a big star, but you know, not one of that handful everyone knows—and if you think about it, what’s this obsession we have (in this cultural time and place) with being known even by the people who don’t really care about your art? I guess it’s about money, then, right? This is a nice country record, low key, solid songs, straightforward, Nashville studio pros, I guess, the usual themes. Actually, I’m not listening all that close to the lyrics. “A Weed is a Weed”—yes it is. The cover cracks me up—kind of a half-assed nautical mishmash. It made me think of the one room in my parents’ house that was decked out in a kind nautical, “Polynesian” (influenced, no doubt, by a visit to Disney Polynesian Village), and Tiki bar (influenced by visits to the Kon-Tiki in Cleveland and the Kahiki in Columbus). The closest music they played to country was nothing; I had a Johnny Cash 45, “A Boy Named Sue”—but that was more of novelty record. I don’t remember when I started to really like country music—I believe it was with Merle Haggard. At a certain point I just became open to anything. I can listen to this record, but it doesn’t do much for me. It’s just not weird enough, on any level, to really comfort me in any way. And that subtle harmonica doesn’t help, it’s just so easy on the ears (in a bad way). It just occurred to me that the cover could be the background art for the menu of cheesy seafood restaurant—that made me laugh.
There is a “Best of Skeeter Davis” record from 1983, and 1980, and 1973, and 1978, and 1965. There may be more, but I got tired of looking in the internet. For the most part, they are the same songs—I mean, the first one kept getting reissued—though I noticed some variations. Anyway, this one that I’m listening to right now is a fine vinyl copy from 1965, RCA Victor, mono, 12 songs, it sounds great. On the front cover there’s nice picture of Skeeter, kind of Olan Mills style, that’s in a squarish rectangle with rounded corners that resembles the screen of 1960s television. It says “The Best of Skeeter Davis” and lists the songs. The letters in her name is each a different color. People could get color TV in the early 60s, but 1965 is considered the year the damn burst. It was often advertised by making each letter a different color, such as with the “Color TV” signs at motels. There are brief, very introductory, uncredited liner notes on back, referring to her as a “vivacious blonde Kentuckian.” She was both young and old at this time (around 34) and was, of course, already a star, with half a dozen LPs, lots of singles, and some hit songs. A “best of” record already made sense.
Every song on this record is good, and I could write an article about each one, but I’m not going to even mention them, I mean, individually, at this point, since they’re all on other records that I’ve written about, or am going to write about. No… maybe should… I’m listening to this again. It’s such a great record… every song is good. It’s like the classic county record of all time. Twelve songs by 12 different people or songwriting teams (including one by Skeeter Davis and Carolyn Penick), but somehow, it’s like every song is a Skeeter Davis song, once she’s singing it. She’s like Sinatra in that way. I wonder if those two ever met. This record would be a great birthday or Christmas present for someone—someone who maybe isn’t already a big Skeeter Davis fan, and you want to introduce her to. If I ever see other copies of this for a reasonable price (or the reissued versions), I’m going to buy them and then give them away as presents. Instead of the guy who gives you books you don’t want to read, I’ll be the guy who gives Skeeter Davis records to people who don’t like country music and don’t have record players!
DJ Farraginous 
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