Frank Sinatra “Nice ‘n’ Easy”

On the cover is a black and white photo of Frank Sinatra looking exactly like Frank Sinatra—while at the same time looking exactly like your average, young to middle-aged, middle to upper middleclass, white, clean-cut, suburban American man, reclining in an easy chair, button-up sweater, open collar, hands behind his head, comfortable smile. It occurs to me that if you didn’t know that hands behind the head pose (using the hands, fingers clasped, as a headrest) (some cultures might not know it?) —that it would be very weird indeed, as if you were holding your brains in your skull, manually. It doesn’t even say “Frank Sinatra” on the cover! You’ve got to know that face. The only words (besides the Capitol logo in the corner) is the title—in small-case, jaunty, orange and red font with an asterisk filling in for the dotted “i” dot— “nice ‘n’ easy” —a font and title that says: “this is a Doris Day romantic comedy” as clearly as if it said those words. And it very well may be, actually—wait, I have to look that up. No. No movie by that name. But it’s the look (font), for the Doris Day movies of that era. It’s also a Clairol product, same font—it’s almost by law that the phrase must be rendered in jaunty, breezy, all small-case. Someone put out an “easy listening” collection with that title. But as far as albums go, this is in some ways (if this is even possible) the most Sinatra Sinatra record—if that makes sense. Slightly over the hill, 100% confident, on the edge of doing this in his sleep. The photo on the back cover, however, shows him being busy, now at work—white shirt and loosened tie, jacket removed, standing among sheet music, sheet music in one hand—I assume he’s in the studio with the Nelson Riddle orchestra, but the background is blackened, like there are no walls—only eternity.

This record came out in 1960—the year I was born—and it may well have played me to sleep in my crib—and may be as close to defining the musical side of my brain as anything—though, I’m not entirely sure my parents had this one. But likely. Certainly, the songs, here and there, are my growing up soundtrack—including the title track, “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” “You Go to My Head,” “Fools Rush In,” “She’s Funny That Way,” and “Embraceable You”—all songs I sing in my dreams. These (as well as six others) must be among the most mellow versions of these songs that Sinatra ever recorded—slow, quiet, slightly melancholy, no fireworks, but deeply moving. Three paragraphs of uncredited liner notes sound like the writeup on one of those Jackie Gleason mood music records—and I suppose this is not so different, but with vocals—and you might put this on during a quiet dinner with cocktails—introduction to the romantic mood—that is, if you aren’t too worried about Sinatra being a disruptive presence—even at his most mellow, he kind of takes over the room. I’m not bothering to look up Sinatra’s discography to see where this fits in (because his discography takes up a half day of bandwidth) but it came just after “No One Cares” (one of my favorite barstool classics) at the end of the Fifties. Turning point? Not really—but certainly the date was—no other calendar shift seemed so epic. But it’s Sinatra’s world—and it seemed like every other record had an exclamation point in the title, interspaced with records featuring sad clown pics with tears and cocktails. Kind of weird, no exclamation point here (just that asterisk), but I heard a rumor that the zippy title track replaced “The Nearness of You” (“at the last minute”)—a song which would have fit the mood better, in my opinion. And if you think about it, Sinatra probably has released countless sets of a dozen songs that would be more aptly titled “Nice ‘n’ Easy” than this one. And this one might have been better titled “That Old Feeling” (2^nd song on the record). Oh, well, another wrinkle of the ol’ Sinatra discography—which is always fun to pore over if you’ve got half a day to kill.

The Jam “Going Underground” / “The Dreams of Children”

Here’s an odd bit of business: I was recently going back to some of my favorite music from 40 and 50 years ago and finding that some of it doesn’t hold up for me. It’s hard to believe I liked it so much. But there’s a good side to that, too: Sometimes I can “discover” music that I once totally dismissed and despised—and hearing it now—I’m surprised to find it compelling. Not totally unrelated: Today’s random selection—two three-minute songs from The Jam on a 1980 promo 45—where’d I get it? Who knows—but since today’s fickle pointer descended on it, I’m going to do an experiment and predict my reaction before hearing it. One word: Lukewarm. For most punk bands, it was over by 1980—already planning their county fair reunion tours. Not that The Jam were a punk band, really—they were a really good pop band—but they played faster and with more energy than anyone—or were right up there. (There were some real coffee drinkers back then.) I remembered writing about—in the early days of this site—four The Jam LPs I used to have—so I went back and looked over those reviews. Interesting—I was expecting to hate them, by then, but found myself loving those records. So… weird. This single dates just after that—what will it sound like?

I wish I could say I was wrong, but both songs sound about like I expected—like The Jam—high energy pop songs with good jangly guitar and expressive bass—lyrics-wise what we used to call “political” songs—about social issues, etc., which is nice. But music-wise, I’m not feeling it. I don’t particularly like “Going Underground,” and I don’t think it’s gonna grow on me. There’s way too much happening, structurally, musically—it could have ended in several places before it did. They managed to make three minutes feel like 30. Too much going on for a pop song—or, really, for a mini-series. “The Dreams of Children” is more interesting, at least on first listen. But it grows old fast—again, overly complicated for what it is. Both of these songs could benefit by being, each, half as long. Oh well, now it seems a little ironic that the last The Jam record I own is this one—that I don’t even like—and I wish I had those first four LPs that I lost. Some advice to the kids—try to hang onto your old records for as long as you can (or whatever equivalent objects of importance from your younger days might be). There may come a time when you’re glad to dust them off and rediscover them.

Canyon Spells “Now That We’re Gone”

Where did I get this record? I’m guessing it strolled in while I was sleeping, like my dreams of imaginary cities. I never heard of this band, and the cover (close-up of a male-model-looking astronaut likely floating in space, looking back at Earth—a poetic visual representation of the title) most likely didn’t compel me to fork out record store dollars. I’m not even crazy about owning contemporary (2016) vinyl—on the shelf, it takes up twice the space as old records, and when moving-time comes, that mega-gram stuff adds up. If anyone wants this, and would like to stop by, it’s yours. I figured it would be one of those records I’d listen to once and write something amusing about (it’s a lot easier to be funny when you’re writing a negative review), but alas, I like the record—I like the production, and the playing, and the singing, and in particular, I really like some of the catchy, even intriguing, pop songs. They remind me of someone/something, but I can’t put my finger on it—not surprising, in that I’m pretty ignorant of the last quarter-century-plus of “indie” music. On the other hand, the music is about fifty-percent someone else’s cup of tea. There’s a website with slightly less info than the minimalist album cover—it opens up, revealing the most basic credits on one side, and on the other side, under what looks like a full solar eclipse, a poem. Or it could lyrics, which, by the way, I can understand as sung—but nothing reaches out and grabs me (which is fine, even good)—and I’m too lazy to dwell on them. That brings me around to the name of the band. What does it mean? I’m not going to make a dumb guess because it might be a fairly obvious literary allusion I’m not getting. Or it might simply be two rather good words that, when placed one after another, it’s safe to assume have not been used anytime recently to describe French fries, sell SUVs, on a fascism promoting hat, or as a fucking online game.

Brenda Russell “Get Here”

When the opportunity presents itself (cheap vinyl) I’ll buy records by anyone named “Randy” (my first name)—or with the same last name as mine. Over the years, this has proved a fine strategy (Randy Newman, Leon Russell, Randy Lee, Randy California, etc. [though… the jury’s still out on Bobby Russell])—though, sometimes, and occasionally, not. But it’s always worth a try. I heard about Brenda Russell way back, at some point—she’s got a long career—here and there—but never heard any of her records. So I picked this one up when I saw a super-clean copy. It kind of confused me—the cover art—a photo of Brenda Russell, treated to look like a painting—on a clean, white background—looks totally contemporary. Yet the record is from 1988—which is eons ago. Yet… I don’t normally buy records that are this “new.” Confused yet? Well, time is relative. I like movies from the Seventies—but for children’s books, that’s way too new—Thirties and Forties, I like much better. With records, 1972 through 1974 is the three-year period I’m drawn to. With tacos, I find them best if they are only a few minutes old.

I guess this music is considered pop, but also R&B—but those categories aren’t really that helpful. The overall sound strikes me as pretty much an Eighties style of production (which would make sense), but not as flagrantly so as most rock music from this era—it’s more timeless sounding. Faster songs and slower songs—I prefer the slower ones, like “Piano in the Dark”—which has a really catchy chorus—and has an emotional quality—the word “emotion” in the lyrics—and, as you might expect, a very cool solo piano part to conclude it. (According to inner sleeve notes, played by Russell Ferrante). “Le Restaurant” (I’m a sucker for dining establishment themes) is nice—I guess I just like slower songs—which wasn’t the case when I was younger. Something occurred to me—something I also thought about while listening to this last time I listened to it—the song, “Midnight Eyes” (a bouncy one) made me think of that band, Was (Not Was)—a record by them I had way back, “What Up Dog?”—so I looked that up—1988. So that’s interesting. Though… not so much the chorus of that song. A couple of her choruses make me think of James Bond theme songs—you know, the ones from the Eighties and Nineties, I guess—which are often instances when I’m suspectable to a mainstream sound—they’re usually catchy. The title song, here, is good—I like it—another slower, more soulful one. I’m not crazy about this record, but it’s okay. I can keep it around for when I’m in the mood for this kind of thing (which happens more and more often, these days).

Tommy Roe “We Can Make Music”

As big a fan of Tommy Roe as I was, when I was nine, I have no idea why I didn’t search out any of his other records. Maybe that was a concept that I didn’t really understand at that time. There was no internet, of course, so where exactly would you go to check out someone’s discography? When did I even first learn that word? Tommy Roe’s first records (singles) came out in 1960—the year I was born—and he’s still with us! Not a ton of records—but a ton of hits! I probably got the single, “Dizzy” when it came out in 1969, and followed that with his 1970 retrospective LP—and then I didn’t buy anything by him until recent years. This one is from 1970, and it’s excellent—I wish I would have bought it when I was ten. The album’s opener, the first lines that are sung: “Come on Julie, touch me with your fingers,” would have freaked me the fuck out. (It’s personal.) The album cover is the kind I particularly like—an actual photograph in a real place—someone’s backyard, it looks like—Tommy Roe wearing a tux, posing with a big ol’ dog. Not a lot of info, but one clue as to why it’s (and Tommy Roe’s hits are) so good—among musicians thanked: Hal Blaine, Joe Osborne, Larry Knechtel, and others… Wrecking Crew. All the songs are okay, but particular standouts are: “The Greatest Love” (Joe South),“Traffic Jam” (Roe and Mac Davis), “Pearl” (Roe and Freddy Weller), “King of Fools” (Roe), a nice version of “Close to You,” and my favorite on the record, “Stir It Up and Serve It” (Roe/Weller)—a very groovy culinary-metaphor number (I’m always a sucker for those).

Tommy Roe “Dizzy” / “The You I Need”

The B-side, “The You I Need” is a decent if vapid and jaunty pop song—but did I ever listen to it? Maybe not. Probably once. It’s like two minutes long, yet contains a corny key change. “Dizzy,” however, is a pop love song masterpiece. I personally consider it… not one of the best… but the best. Besides the melody, and the way the low-key verses work with the ascending chorus, it’s the drums (corny, but they make the song) and the strings, which function like another percussion instrument. This might be the first record I ever owned—probably not, but I’m sure one of my first half-dozen 45s (well before I bought LPs). It’s amazing that I still have the exact same record—my initials stuck on the label twice. It’s traveled around with me for 50 years—how did that happen? And it still plays! Not real well, but if it was the last version on Earth, you could live with it. This is one of the records (along with “I Think I Love You”) that I associate with my first crush on a girl, third grade or so. Every time I’d listen to it, then, my heart would practically melt (you know, like the guy in the song). And that went on for years—long after the crush had gone its way. And the weird thing—to this day—the song does the same thing to me. It really does. Which leads me to believe I can’t be trusted. It’s not the best song ever recorded. It’s not even my favorite all-time song. But it’s the purest personal example of nostalgia overwhelming all other faculties.

All this time, and I’ve never even bothered to look up who wrote the song, when the record came out, etc. Okay—1968 release—so third grade, like I thought. I mean, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be an eight-year-old—I guess I always assumed a simple-minded munchkin. Yet… here I was with a full spectrum of emotions and a sophisticated musical appreciation—to the extent that I’ve never grown out of it. That’s kind of incredible. It was written by Tommy Roe (he did write a lot of his hits, I believe) and Freddy Weller, another Sixties singer and songwriter with a similar haircut to Tommy Roe. What was the collaboration like, I wonder, with Tommy and Freddy? And the musicians? Of course… The Wrecking Crew. That doesn’t surprise me at all. Hal Blaine is playing those drums. Jimmie Haskell with the sting arrangement. It was probably part of a day’s work in some LA studio for those cats—I mean, I’m sure they were cool with it—probably happier with some recordings than others. When it became a number one hit, I’m sure that was sweet. But how many people are there, out there, like me, for whom this song is it? A few people covered it, of course, but most notably, Wreckless Eric—one of my all-time favorites. And the first punk band I was in, the Bursting Brains, we even played it (probably at my insistence). One of those “life goals,” ticked off.

Skeeter Davis “Singin’ in the Summer Sun”

I’m glad that my magic eightball planchette thingy landed its arrow on this 1966 record for review in the summer—it would have felt weird in the dead of winter—for obvious reasons. The album cover is a nice painting of a blond woman at the beach—obviously supposed to be Skeeter Davis, though it doesn’t look like any picture I’ve seen of her—but that’s okay, I guess. She’s in the foreground and, oddly, in the background the sky is mauve! And there is just the slightest glimpse of water, as if we’re looking over a big dune. The funniest thing is there’s a group of four young people, and one is a guy sitting in a chair with an acoustic guitar and a shirt with red and white vertical stripes like he’s one of the Beach Boys. Maybe he is. The usual 12 songs, and seven contain the word summer, two have the word sand, one boardwalk, one lifeguard, and one sunglasses. You’ve heard a lot of these, of course, by other artists, but Skeeter Davis has a way of improving on even the most over-recorded tunes. (I honestly think she could have done an entire Lennon-McCartney record and it would have been good.)

May favorites here are… all of them—but there’s a few worth mentioning again. “Dixie Cup of Sand” (John D. Loudermilk)—first time I’ve heard that song—is kind of weird and good. The most jaunty (and that’s sayin’ something) version I’ve yet heard of the massively over-covered “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters)—with a kitchen sink of extras—on paper that sounds like a disaster, but it actually makes me like that song again. “That Warm Sumner Night”—with cricket effects—great song. “(Theme from) A Summer Place” has one of her excellent, signature talking parts in it. Her version of Gershwin’s “Summertime”—the world’s most covered song—is one of the stranger takes I’ve heard (I even like it better than Lana Del Rey’s and Iggy Pop’s versions)—it makes the song new—and it’s even a little creepy. A version of The Shangri-Las’ “Remember (Walkin’ n the Sand),” is also weirdly atmospheric, a little odd—including weirdly off seagull effects. Her rendition of Chad & Jeremy’s “A Summer Song” is one of the more sadder and bubblegummier sad bubblegum songs I can recall. “Sunglasses” (Loudermilk again) I know from another of her records, and I always liked it—good lyrically. “That Summer Sunset” (Sandra Rhodes) is a song I don’t know at all—and it’s just about my favorite one here.

The other funny thing with this record is the extensive liner notes by Gerry Wood (Vanderbilt University) about what they went through to get this record on vinyl—I won’t go into it all—you’ll have to buy the record and spend a warm evening with your reading glasses and the back cover. But it has to do with Skeeter being hospitalized for exhaustion (a reminder that I really have to get around to reading her autobiography!) then, producer Chet Atkins selecting songs with Skeeter—but vamoosing to the Caribbean without telling anyone what songs (and Skeeter’s too out of it to remember). Meanwhile, new producer Felton Jarvis forges ahead with his own selection of songs—and the session going ahead with Ronnie Light singing—and then the engineers removing his voice—and Skeeter recovering… Okay, I just said I wasn’t going to recite it…  and there I go… Well, the record speaks for itself.  I’ll stop now. But first, I’ve got to add my favorite detail, when Skeeter woke from “medicated” sleep and said, “Bring me a cheeseburger and some pink thread.” Which strikes me as one of the more Skeeter Davis Skeeter Davis stories I’ve heard.

Joe Wong “Nite Creatures”

Once in a while I feel like the best approach to an album is to put myself in the cinematic flow of the feelings I get as it takes me along—it’s usually a record I like, as I do this one. It works best when I get the sensation that I’m watching something—not necessarily a movie or anything narrative, but not abstract either. It’s often my most enjoyable version of a journey—neither weighed down by dramatic convention nor floating on an unhinged dreamscape—but something in-between—maybe a combination of memory and discovery. At any rate, it’s more fun than trying to isolate instruments or nail down influences. I can make out the lyrics, here, but there’s no lyric sheet included, which is sometimes good because the lazy approach is to isolate and analyze text. But first… this is a 2020 release—the Decca label looks like an old one, but the vinyl is heavy-duty, the way the kids like it. The cover is nice—a double exposure of either Joe Wong and Joe Wong, or Joe Wong and Crispin Glover (though, that would make no sense, but such is the nature of double exposures). Joe Wong and Mary Timony are credited with most of the sound—along with a few guest artists, and some orchestra. If I’m going to use one term for the music, I’d say psychedelic pop. Side 1 ends with a lock-groove. I wish Side 2 did, as well—in fact I wish all sides of all records ended in lock-grooves, seeing how I don’t have an automatic return turntable.

Okay, I guess I’m in Los Angeles, a town—whenever I visit—that I fall in and out of love with, within a week’s time—a microcosm of my relationships. It’s over. What a good place to start. I’ve reached absolute bottom, and now I’m walking. Well, that’s what one does in L.A.—not drive, that’s a myth—which is good because whenever I’m driving in a dream it’s all about not being able to hold a tight corner at high speeds. I’m walking along the boardwalk. Is there a boardwalk somewhere? Maybe I’m not in L.A. after all—never did make it to the beach. I come to a church, but it’s an old one, like a mission—not one of those new, drive-in ones. I either begin to pray or pretend to pray—I’m not sure—but then it occurs to me that it doesn’t make any difference. Did you ever dream in church? Did you ever kiss someone in a church? And why am I dressed in a cowboy costume? I was named after Randolph Scott, who looked comfortable in cowboy gear but miserable in a suit. I stop at a busy and hip pizza place, now, on a street populated with hustlers and insane dreamers—but I’m not eating—I’m taking in smells, perfumes, flowers, pizza—I can live on the wafting odors—which connect directly to the part of my brain that resides in heaven. Past midnight, now—adventure. I’m in a car, as a passenger—it’s an open convertible. We’re going somewhere—a surprise—there’s fear and anticipation. Then… the lock-groove of death.

The next morning, I’m walking along the beach. Finally made it to the beach! Something (could it merely be a good night’s sleep?) has made me feel invincible! I can do anything I want to do. Well, short of surfing—but I like watching the surfers—for once they’re not annoying, but beautiful. Well… I guess I’m performing my own version of riding the waves. Yeah, but it couldn’t last. Now I’m stranded in the haunted hills, and someone lent me some shitty sunglasses that allow me to see every single thing that happened here in the near and distant past. I’m a passenger once more, this time in an old VW bus, taking the hilly curves way too fast—though maybe we’re actually gliding just above the road. How’d I end up with these cats who are each dressed in a different satin rainbow color? Fortunately, they let me out at my girlfriend’s house (to be clear, this is a woman I’ve never met—yet she seems to know everything about me). She is absolutely everyone I’ve ever known condensed into a B-movie actress. As the sun is setting, now (in the east, for some weird psycho-geographic reason), I’m walking in slow-motion through lovely, old Union Station, lit, tonight, exclusively with candles. The huge, antique train is waiting for me, steaming and shaking, like a giant horse, and I pretty much am certain that once I get on it, all of this will be lost. Except for, you know—not the memories—but a single pearl—that they tell me… if you roll it ’round a roulette wheel it will never land. That’s all, folks! Thanks, Joe Wong, for the dreamy trip, and the trippy dreams. Keep ’em coming.

Laura Nyro “Eli and the Thirteenth Confession”

I never listened to Laura Nyro when I was younger—except for, of course, the songs that were on the radio—in which case I had no idea it was Laura Nyro—and over the years I heard that name without attaching it to any of those songs. I used to see her records in cheap bins and thrift stores all the time—she was on a major label (Columbia) and had an early pop radio hit (“Wedding Bell Blues”) so it’s likely she sold a lot—making them accessible, now. Anyway, during a particular lull a few years back, one day it came over me to look up Laura Nyro on the big database, at which time I saw her discography, and learned that she died at a young age—though I didn’t read much else. I then decided I’d make it a project to listen to all of her records—since I could actually find vinyl copies. Of course, when I then went to the store with the particular intention of finding her records, I could no longer find any. This went on for the better part of a year—very frustrating—but then I found one, and another… and now I have the first half-dozen or so. This is her second LP—from 1968.

There’s a full band on this record, horns even, though piano is at the heart of the matter. There’s a nice balance with her singing—and she does a lot of singing—there are backing vocals, as well, which sound like Laura Nyro, too—so that’s my guess. Thirteen songs altogether, each one a pop song experience—I’m not familiar with any at first, until “Poverty Train,” which I’ve heard somewhere. And then on the second side, “Stoned Soul Picnic” I recognize from the Fifth Dimension version. I believe a few people had hits with her songs. As I’ve said a million times, I’m not good at isolating lyrics—and maybe isolating is the right word, at least for me—because for me to register lyrics I have to cease listening to the song as a whole and favor the words over the music. I don’t like doing that, really, at least until I’ve heard a record a lot of times and have the music ingrained in my memory. So even if there’s a lyric sheet, I don t like to read it until I know the music pretty well. Does that make any sense? I don’t think other people necessarily have this problem—some people pick up the lyrics immediately. No lyric sheet here—though there is an inner sleeve with a Columbia Records rundown of “new artists”—with quite a bit of writing, even—which looks interesting—might be worth a review of its own. Good songs—Laura Nyro can write songs, that’s for sure. “Woman’s Blues” is a standout on the second side. She sure can sing, too—almost too much—but I’m not going to be critical—because it’s what she does—sings to excess. Overall, I like this record like I like breakfast and coffee—and I’m feeling happy my Laura Nyro experiment is starting out on a worthwhile foot.

Los Hermanos Castro “Los Espectaculares Hnos. Castro”

Everything I know about Los Hermanos Castro I just now read on the internet, and sometimes I think we’d be better off if we had to speculate until we could search out someone to get the info from in person. But here we are. Except for the name of the record company, there isn’t a bit of writing on this album cover that’s not in Spanish—and very little of that. I bought it, essentially, because of the odd cover, and also because I didn’t know anything about them. How mysterious the presentation—one of those album covers that looks like it may have been something else, then was covered with a full-size sticker of the new cover—which, in this case, is pretty bizarre. It’s mostly white, with what looks like purple ink randomly splattered on it. Somehow, the faces of the four band members have formed out of the splattered ink, and the album name is in white, across the biggest purple splotch. The back consists of some really messy collage work in a similar style, but here, black and white, overly busy, quite sloppy, and a little insane. It’s intriguing. There is also no English on the label—except for “RCA Victor”—and I suppose that’s how you’d say RCA Victor in Spanish. It’s that modern era, orange label with RCA in space-age letters. That got me sidetracked looking up the evolution of their label—they went from that really old-fashioned looking picture, fooling that poor dog with a gramophone—to the future—this orange label in 1968—maybe inspired by NASA? This record came out in 1969, and it’s a heavy vinyl—but not too long after this were those super flimsy records, but same looking label.

But that’s a digression. Well, the internet tells me this band kind of evolved from family member singing groups, in Mexico City, from the Fifties (and possibly still playing today, in some form). Then in the Sixties, this quartet became very popular, got lots of high-profile gigs in the US—New York, Vegas, etc.—and you can understand why—this record is pretty great—they are compelling, interesting singers, and they are doing stuff in all kinds of styles, but it all works together organically—it feels good to me. A lot of it is pop music, and really timeless—like I wouldn’t even be able to nail down a decade—it could be mid-last-century, or NOW. On the other hand, it sounds to me like jet planes, op art, and whiskey sours. I’m picturing the group dressing formally, even with bow ties, but audiences with big hair and striped pants. Most of the songs are written by members of the band, and they are very good. But there’s also some covers, including “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” on the second side—a fine version. The other reason I bought this record is because it has that song listed, and I’m curious to hear all covers of that crazy song, just because I’ve heard so many great renditions of it. There’s also a bit of a Mamas & Papas medley, including “California Dreamin’” and “Monday Monday,” which is kind of hilarious. It sounds good, really, but the “medley” aspect is cheesy—you can understand why people quit doing medleys outside of cornball Las Vegas—and now leave the medleys for cafeteria vegetables and swimming competitions. Again I digress. The bottom line is, this is an excellent record, one I’ll be putting on the next time I have a date over for Scrabble.