Lani Hall “Sun Down Lady”

This may be one of the strangest album cover photos I’ve ever seen—it’s simply a color profile photo of (presumably) Lani Hall, blown up to billboard size—so large that the full-size album cover can only contain the area between her eyebrow and bottom lip. On top of that, it’s pretty color-saturated. Had she a zit on her right cheek, you’d have had to name the record “Mount Vesuvius.” But she looks nice—not many of us could stand up to such enlargement scrutiny. I wonder what she thought about the cover? Anyway, once I saw it, in the used record store, there was no way I wasn’t going to buy it. I had no idea who Lani Hall was—I didn’t remember that she sang with Brazil ’66—and I didn’t know that she was married to Herb Alpert—maybe still is—or that she sang a James Bond theme song. This record, from 1972, is her first solo record—and she recorded a bunch more.

I like this one a lot, actually, and it’s going in my regular listening pile (I actually have an old end table with a thing that holds either magazines or record albums—that’s where I put my regular listening stack.) Herb Alpert is the producer, and naturally there’s some first-rate session players on it, and a pretty interesting collection of songs, including “Tiny Dancer” and another by Elton John, “Come Down In Time”—this is a really nice version of it. There’s also songs by Cat Stevens, Paul Simon, Paul Williams, and more. One Lani Hall composition—a pretty intense love song. The Lesley Duncan song, “Love Song” is a standout, probably my favorite on the record. “Sun Down” is a very familiar sounding song (it’s written by Willis Alan Ramsey, who wrote “Muskrat Love”)—could this song have been playing on the AM radio in the morning while I ate my Cap’n Crunch before another horrific day of 7^th Grade? I like it, now, though—it pretty much puts me on a beach, looking out over the Pacific as the light fades, with a beautiful woman and a rum drink. You know, pretty much my life.

Slim Dusty “The Answer to a Pub with No Beer / Winter Winds”

“The Answer to a Pub with No Beer” is a fairly simple song, minimal acoustic guitar, and this guy’s crystal clear, piercing voice that could cut through an iceberg like a laser knife, or iceberg lettuce like a Ginsu knife, or London fog like a wailing banshee or a fog cutter cocktail (gin, rum, cognac, orgeat, lemon juice, orange juice, amontillado), just verse after verse after verse until the story is over. I’m going to have to listen again and pay attention to the words, much to the pleasure of my neighbors, since his voice cuts through plaster and drywall like a Sawzall. I can’t place his voice, actually; he sounds a little hillbilly and a little Oxford educated. The other side, “Winter Winds,” is a celebration of winter, when, you know, out on the range, and in this one he does a little yodeling, which is not my favorite use of the vocal chords, but it is pretty impressive and otherworldly, sounding like some kind of banshee. I shouldn’t have used the word “banshee” earlier, now I feel like I can’t use it here. Oh well, I guess that’s why they invented editing. Back to the first song, a story song, about the pub with no beer—I’m trying to concentrate on the story, and it sounds like plain English, but I can’t figure out what in the hell he’s talking about. I could listen to it over and over, and try to write out the lyrics, and start the department of Slim Dusty studies, but I’m not going to, and instead will resort to the dreaded internet to see if I can find out anything about this singer.

So it turns out that Slim Dusty is Australian and was a huge star there and this was a number one record, so now I feel like a dumb-ass. I tried reading the lyrics, but still can’t figure it out—or just don’t want to take the time—maybe it’s just sour grapes that I can’t drink beer—though I was known to consume a few of those Australian oil cans of beer, whatever those were called, in my time. I’m reading the lyrics, and they are kind of insane—I mean, there’s a driver, and a drover, and a blitz wagon—really great stuff, actually. I like this song a lot—I was trying to think who it reminded me of, and Red Foley crossed my mind—not that I have a lot of Red Foley records—a couple on cassette, but they’re really good. I guess this particular 45 I have is a New Zealand pressing—it’s a green Columbia label—it looks really ancient, but it’s just 1958—though that is kind of ancient, I guess. My favorite thing of all is the full artist name on the record: Slim Dusty “The Dusty Trail Yodeler” And His Bushlanders. That’s just excellent.

Stan Kenton and his Orchestra “Cuban Fire!”

This is a totally pop-culture reference, and a dated one at that, but there’s a part of the first number here that reminds me totally of the title song of the Jonny Quest TV show from the 1960s. I guess it’s just this particular horn part, maybe a trumpet. If you watch that show now, whether you remember it or not, with the sound off, you might be shocked at how primitive the animation is. I mean, the art is good, but it’s just pretty clunky and not overly sophisticated. I don’t remember it like that at all, I think, because the sound is very sophisticated, and the score is amazing. Sound and music create a much more complete picture than image does. This record reminds me of records my dad had—he had some Stan Kenton, I think, but not this one—this is a lot more intense than what my parents normally listened to. It’s got a kind of insane album cover, all orange and black, like a highly stylized illustration of a conga player, possibly on the edge of a volcano, or Hell. On the back there’s about an hour’s worth of liner note reading (including detailed notes for each song). There are a lot of liner notes, actually—I’m going to put this on a “do on a rainy day” list—to read these liner notes—I’ve seen shorter novels.

I think this is one of those records where the best way to approach it is to go song by song (there are only six), and because each one feels like a mini-drama, describe what each song makes me visualize, or think of, or feel. The titles are in both Spanish and English, but I’m just including the Spanish (which is Greek, to me), so as not to be narratively influenced. Fuego Cubano – A guy in a white suit drinking rum and cokes at a bar, in Cuba, naturally, just kind of not sweating somehow and calmly waiting to be detained by the authorities. El Congo Valiente – A well-dressed European couple, a very shallow looking man and a beautiful woman, are dashing from airport to airport, carrying their undersized valises, trying not to miss their planes (in each airport). Recuerdos – The guy in the white suit again, but this time suavely being escorted into the bank lockbox area where he fills his valise with some unrecognizable currency, then leaves unmolested, except at the end we are made aware that this is just a flashback. Quien Sabe – Now our hero is piloting some kind of super fast and also totally silent aircraft, flying very low, passing over small islands dotting an impossibly blue sea. The mood is optimistic. Le Guera Baila – This is the couple from earlier, but this is back in time because they don’t know each other—she is at the bar and he comes in and introduces himself, orders them both a rum and coke (he drinks them both) and then she leaves. La Suerte de los Tontos – The man and the woman are making their getaway in an elaborate chase scene, first riding in the back of produce truck, then stealing a motorcycle. As both they and the authorities (in small cars) approach the dock, and the waiting yacht, there is a freeze frame, suggesting an ambiguous ending, or maybe indicating that this entire escape is all in the guy’s mind, and he’s probably dead or in prison. FIN.

Bruce Springsteen “The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle”

I was one of those Springsteen fans who, before I was a fan, was turned off by all the Born to Run hoopla in 1975 but finally bought the Darkness LP in 1978, loved it, became a fan then, then went back to the first three records. I listened to his first six records to death, but after that I wouldn’t give him the time of day (and that’s more about me than him)—so I’m guessing there’s some great music from 1984 on that I missed, but, oh well. Currently he’s “On Broadway”—I know nothing about that, but I’ll guess two things: It’s really good, and I can’t afford it. I rarely look him up on the internet, but I’ve noticed that he uncannily resembles Jello Biafra—maybe they are friends. One thing I feel certain about, even never having met the man, I feel like he possesses a genuineness of spirit that even sainthood can’t diminish. That is based on a couple of live shows I saw in the late Seventies at the Richfield Coliseum (now a ghost) that I attended even after swearing off large venue shows. His concerts are legendary, and for once, legendary got that right. Anyway, I lost all my Springsteen LPs while movin’ around, so I made a point of picking up a copy of this one after I decided it’s the best. Someday I’m going to make a list of all the recording artists whose best record was their second one—there’s a lot! Also, this was from 1973 (as was his first record), further making my point that that was a pretty good year. There are more than a few of us out there, actually, that think this record is Springsteen’s best. We meet once a month in the VFW basement over hardshell tacos and Old Milwaukee Light and Skype with the national chapter, which mostly consists of mini-memorials for our recently passed and dwindling membership.

One reason I wanted a vinyl copy of this record is that I love the album cover (not so much the front, gigantic portrait—though if you isolate his thumb and stare at it, it will make you feel weird) because of the band picture on back—one of my favorite band photos ever. I’m not sure if they were yet called “The E Street Band”—but I liked this lineup even better than the later ones—which is saying something, because they were all good—but I just like the overall playing, production, and sound on this record. And this band photo, it’s the best. (In my opinion, there should only be two things in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: this photo, and a closed/out of business sign.) First of all, it looks like a really hot day, and they were able to maybe move down half a block from the Taste-E-Freeze to take a photo in front of the pawn shop. They all look “bad” (as we used to say), and not surprisingly, Clarence Clemons, the baddest. Garry Tallent looks like he has a leg cramp. Danny Federici looks like he was the only one who knew they were taking a photo that day. And if you didn’t know better, you’d think it was David Sancious’ band. My favorite, though, is Vini “Mad Dog” Lopez, wearing cut-offs and an open Hawaiian shirt—for years I’ve used this photo as my summer fashion icon ideal—I just want to copy his look outright (though at this point, sadly, unless I’m able to trade in my stomach for some hair, it’s not ever going to happen).

Really, this sounds more like someone’s 20^th record rather than their second—I mean in that it doesn’t sound like it’s trying too hard to please anyone as much as the people making it, and maybe that’s why I like it so much. There are only seven songs, but the three on side two are like 7, 8, and 10 minutes long! I like the production so much better than the later records, too—I guess it accentuates the songwriting. There’s no grandstanding, it sounds egoless, and it’s not too guitar heavy. On some songs the most prominent instrument is accordion—one of those being “4^th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)”—just that title!—which is one of my favorite Springsteen songs ever. Some of these songs—you presume before the record deals that these guys were playing in bars—but in what kind of bars could you play “Wild Billy’s Circus Story?” “Incident on 57^th Street” might be prettiest Springsteen song ever, and just listening to it now makes me think about all the hearts he must have broken before getting his picture on the covers of Time and Newsweek. Listening to this record now confirms how much I like it; it’s the one I choose to put on if I’m in the mood for Bruce Springsteen. It’s also making me kind of curious, now, about what led up to the first two records. Maybe I’ll check out his autobiography. Anyway, I guess this record brings back some summer evening in the late Seventies, softly through my Advent speakers while sipping a rum drink, that fragrant, warm evening air, low lights in the “breezeway”—a room off the garage of my parents’ house that really was a time and place, and this record was part of it. Call it pure nostalgia, and I can’t argue with that, but that’s the sweet part of a good cocktail, and mixed with the right proportions of reality and weirdness, you get why the golden ratio is greater than the sum of its parts.

Jimmy Buffett “A White Sport Coat and A Pink Crustacean”

I haven’t been able to listen to Jimmy Buffett since the first time I heard “Cheeseburger in Paradise” for the hundredth time, so I put this record on against my better judgement, but I had my reasons, including the fact that I used to be a huge JB fan, around the time the Changes in Latitudes record came out, which led me to an earlier record, Highway A1A, which inspired my imagination and sense of adventure at the time (once when I was 18, then again 19, and brings back memories of Bocador Rum, CocoRibe Liqueur, Passport Scotch), heading down to Florida on spring break and exploring the Atlantic coastline. He has written some really good songs and goes all out with the lyrics, even if sometimes he goes too all out. The worst thing about Jimmy Buffett, now, I guess, is that he sounds too much like Jimmy Buffett.

It’s not his fault entirely that his name evokes all-you-can-eat crab legs on a cruise ship. A second reason for putting this on is that it’s from 1973, the year I started drinking, and my appreciation of JB goes hand in hand with drinking, preferably rum drinks with a lot of either pineapple or coconut or both—and also, I’ve never heard this record, that I can recall. It occurred to me that a good name for crusty old white guy music might be “Pink Crustacean Music”—which would be inspired by this title. That is also the title of a short liner note on the back cover by Tom McGuane which, if I understand it correctly, is a criticism of the seriousness of the folk movement and an appreciation of JB’s blender of country, fruit juice, show biz, and intoxicants. Plus, how bad can a record be that has songs titled “Peanut Butter Conspiracy” and “Death of an Unpopular Poet”? Also, included here, is the classic bar sing-a-long (credited to “Marvin Gardens”) “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw.” Alas, I’m afraid, for me, the SS Jimmy Buffett has long since sailed.