Silver Convention “Get Up and Boogie (That’s Right)” / “Son of a Gun”

I’ve lost all patience, I admit, with the internet, social media, this website—the constant hustle just trying to get anyone to listen. I should probably stop writing about records I don’t even like, because I have no energy for “research”—and while I do have nostalgia for many dumb things in my past, I have none for most TV shows and quite a lot of music—including disco. But anyway, here’s a 45 with an attractive label—half yellow, half white—“Midland International”—it’s got more info on it than Encyclopedia Britannica—two dates, 1974, 1976—and under the song titles: “A Butterfly Production by Michael Kunze, An Original Jupiter Recording”—I don’t want to automatically say that sounds like there was coke involved, but come on. I mean “Get Up and Boogie” is a pretty great song—it’s mostly a repetition of several women singers singing “Get up and boogie,” though they occasionally vary that with… “Boogie.” Genius. The thing about the song I don’t like is that periodically the music stops and what sounds like several fraternity brothers shout, “That’s right!” I’m guessing for many, that “makes” the song—but for me, quite the opposite. I guess I could do a remix of the song, cut out the “That’s rights!”—but then, I’m imagining, I’d be tempted to add in something equally as dumb—like “Speen sauce!” Okay, maybe not that dumb.

The B-Side, “Son of a Gun,” is just as good—well, I like it way better (mostly due to it not having gym-short guys singing “That’s right!” all though it). But it’s a pretty great song, actually. The women intermittently sing, “You son of a gun”—which, I believe is intended, in this context, as a woman berating a man. Maybe I’m wrong—but that’s the impression I get, because between those outbursts we hear a man singing (so low and mumbly I can’t really make out the words) a kind of Barry White inspired sleaze-talking. The problem is—“you son of a gun” is never an expression used in anger at someone—it’s always an expression of approval (used with an ironic twist). So, maybe it’s the language barrier here that’s the problem—Silver Convention is a German group, after all. But for me, this is no problem at all—it’s what makes the song—well, that and the soaring instrumental parts that are very cinematic—kind of “Theme from Shaft” inspired. But what if I’m wrong about all this? I’ll have to listen to it REALLY LOUD to see what the low-voiced guy is saying. Well, I still can’t understand what he’s saying, and the neighbors are complaining, but it sounds like he’s trying to get the women to forgive him for some indiscretion, while, at the same time, trying to “get busy” with them. Pretty much what I’d imagined. It is a great song—I guess I like this record after all—and it’s put me in a much better mood! (Why I persist.)

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.

Ray Pillow “The Waitress” / “She Knows What Love Can Do”

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.

The Fireflies “I Can’t Say Goodbye” / “What Did I Do Wrong”

A nice doo-wop 45 from 1959—an old record, from before I was born. You would think I might have some deeply rooted nostalgia for doo-wop—but I just don’t—I’ve never been that big a fan, and I don’t even have any memories of similar music as a young kid. I must have heard some on the radio when I was really young, but I just don’t recall it. But hearing it on this record makes me happy—maybe it’s because of the ancient, organic medium—45 RPM record, that is. Odd… it kind of sounds like it’s from—not just many, many generations ago—but from another era. Era, I guess it is. Or is it an epoch? Era or epoch? Maybe it’s because it’s playing at home on my cobbled together system. Pure analog warmth. I can enjoy it. There’s a little bit about this band on the internet—they were from Long Island. It sounds like they had a bunch of records out. Another cool thing about this one is the really excellent looking label: “Ribbon”—which is a black background with a kind of cartoon-drawing orange ribbon—it’s quite attractive. The songs—“I Can’t Say Goodbye”—a lament to a lapsed lover—and “What Did I Do Wrong”—the hard questions posed to a lapsed lover (though maybe he’s simply asking himself)—are not real great sentiments. Melancholy, sure, and a little pathetic. But the guitar on the second one—kind of a Hawaiian guitar sound (to me, anyway) gives it a bit of a surreal flavor that I really like.

The Wildcats “What Are We Gonna Do in ’64?” / “3625 Groovy Street”

File under “songs with numbers in the titles.” Weirdly, the A-side sounds too fast, and the B-side too slow—but at least “3625” has a nice groove to it—and a great title (“3625 Groovy Street”)—which is also the chorus—sung in a goofy, singsong by what sounds like three teenage girls. Who are The Wildcats? I’m not spending all day on the internet to (attempt to) find out—so it remains a mystery. Apparently the “Hazlewood” noted as songwriter (both songs) is indeed Lee Hazlewood—one of my favorite songwriters ever. Makes sense, this is on Reprise, and “3625 Groovy Street” sounds like something he’d come up with. “’64” has its moments—a really hot guitar solo, in that old rock’n’roll guitar style—really nice one. The gist of that song is, we’ve learned The Twist, etc., and so forth, but that’s old hat—so what are we gonna do in ’64? “Will it be something strange and new or will it be something old and blue?” That’s the (sung) question. What were the fads in 1964? There was that Troll Doll. Dumb, but much better than Internet Trolls. I don’t know what else. I know there was this record, with some groovy organ and hot guitar and enthusiastic singing teen-sounding girls. For me, personally, I’m sure there was a lot new—being four years old—but I can’t really remember it! Heavy drinking and smoking weed were, for me, still a decade off.

Johnny Cash “A Boy Named Sue” / “San Quentin”

The only thing worse than a novelty record is a live novelty record—but this one, from 1969, has an odd place in my heart. I still have (somehow!) the same record I bought when I was nine years old, though I haven’t actually listened to it for probably near half a century—having turned against it at some point. Hearing it again, now, though, is funny—it brought back the progression of thoughts I had about it over time. It’s written by Shel Silverstein and was a big hit for Johnny Cash, who I used to see on TV—it seemed like regularly—and no doubt at least once singing this one. I liked him, and listening to it now, I can see how compelling he is, even doing a joke song—the band is also very good, stripped down, and tough. Most likely the first thing I noticed, as a kid, was that I was able to understand the irony in the story—a kid’s dad named him Sue in order to toughen him up by having him deal with ridicule. Neither amused nor appreciative of the gesture, the kid spends his young life hunting down his dad to kill him—eventually they fight, but then Dad explains why he did it. After my initial understanding, though, a few alternate ideas set in. Why did this piece of shit parent use such a shortcut? Why didn’t he stick around and maybe teach the kid in a more conventional way? And then, why was the bullying that the kid was subjected to simply accepted as inevitable? The thing that saved the song, for me, was the double ironic twist at the end where the kid appreciates his dad, finally, but vows, if he has kids—a boy—to give him a boy’s name! It’s a good, disarming ending. But I was still bugged by the other problems, and by that time, too, I was beginning to be against fighting. Though, ultimately, the thing that might have turned me against the record was it being overplayed—on TV, the radio, and at home (I only had a handful of choices). A humorous story song like this soon wears out its welcome.

The other side is “San Quentin”—both songs were recorded live at San Quentin Prison—this one written by Johnny Cash. As you might guess, a song in which he sings: “San Quentin… I hate every inch of you…” goes over pretty well among the audience there. The main sentiment of the song, besides hating the prison, is that the experience of prison will do no good as far as changing the prisoner for the better—it’s simply punishment, but there’s no reform—nothing good about it, whatsoever. Again, the band is great, just guitar, bass, and minimal drums, and there’s also some women backup singers, briefly, which I didn’t remember—almost not there—on the instrumental break, singing “San Quentin” all of like two times. I didn’t like this one as much, as a kid, but I think I appreciated the “plain talkin’.” There’s no ironic twist at the end of this song—it’s short and simple. Focusing the hatred on the place, however, rather than the people responsible for the place, is interesting. Plus, he sounds like he’s singing from personal experience—though, in this case, there’s no intriguing admission of shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die (fictional or not). At any rate, he’s convincing—what a voice! —I’m sure when I was a kid, I really believed that he was a hardened criminal. With a voice like that, he could convince you that he’d been retrieved from thirty days in the hole just that morning.

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.

Barbara Christian “Not Like You Boy” / “I Worry”

Finally, I came across a record in my very miscellaneous 45 box that I never heard before and it’s really good. Both sides sound like soul classics—they sound enough like other songs that they’re on the tip of your tongue—but I don’t recall ever hearing them. I must have played the record when I found it (I play everything once)—then filed it with the rest, waiting for its magic number to come up. It’s a simple white label with black, basic letters, Brownie Records—and the artist, Barbara Christian. I’d never heard of either, so the way my brain works, I’m thinking religious music, and that dessert that’s about half as good as fudge. But no, the A-side is a hot soul number with a repetitive organ riff, horns, wild drums, and catchy, echoey backup vocals—an overall kind of over-blown, hard, funky sound. You can dance to it. Her singing is strong and emotional. I like “I Worry” even more—a slower one, even more emotional—the man in question here isn’t being dismissed, this time—more worth being sad over. You can dance to this one too, but it would be a slow dance. Again, organ, horns, and drums recorded loud, so when they break out, they distort—I really like the sound. I imagine this is the same recording session. Both songs are credited to “G. Brown”—and it’s “A Gary Brown Production”—so I’m guessing he wrote them. I can’t find a lot of info, but there’s some on Discogs, and in comments on a YouTube of the record someone was kind enough to post. If the info is correct—Brownie was Gary Brown’s label, out of Milwaukee, and Barbara Christian was born in Newark and passed away in Milwaukee in 2018. The record is from 1967. I know I always say (when writing about a 45) that I don’t have any idea where it came from (I’m a broken record) but in most cases that’s true. You come across them a lot in thrift stores, and they’re almost always either super big hits, a billion pressed, and/or lame novelty records. But once in a while you find something good, like this, so it’s worth looking!

The Clash “Gates of the West” / “Groovy Times”

I have absolutely no idea how this oddball Clash 45 came into my possession—it says: “Demonstration Not for Sale” on it—the date, 1979. I’m pretty sure both of these songs were on albums, though I’m not sure which ones. I was such a huge Clash fan—at the time of their first four LPs—that I would buy both the US and UK versions, since there were different songs on them. At some point, though, I just lost interest in The Clash, and for whatever reason, I still haven’t been able to go back to them, not even for nostalgia. I wrote about the first four LPs on the DJ Farraginous blog way back in 2006—so you can see what I said then—if you’re so inclined—probably amusing. (That’s the year that blog started, and for a while, I was going through my records alphabetically.) I feel kind of bad about not being a big fan, anymore, since I know they were a great band—and it is weird to me how I sometimes go against what I once loved with all my heart (like the M*A*S*H TV show, energetic rock music, the harmonica, some sports, driving, movies, and beer). I feel like I know these songs in my sleep—I know exactly how they go. But I’m going to play them, anyway, because you never know—fresh ears and all. “Gates of the West” is a super high energy Mick Jones vocals pop number—very catchy—he’s also, I’m guessing, singing the backup vocals and playing his signature lead guitar parts. The lyrics are no doubt political, but I’m not going to dwell on them at this point. “Groovy Times” is also high energy and poppy, this time with Joe Strummer singing—I liked both of those guys as singers, but particularly JS, because MJ backup vocals work well with JS’s raspy voice. I’m also not dwelling on the lyrics—though I’m sure they’re saying something. The worst thing about both of these songs is the drums sound crappy—they were recorded crappily, I suspect, because I know that guy was a great drummer—unless for this studio date they enlisted a hack with a cardboard box. Who knows. Anyway, both of these songs sound exactly like I remember them—but more so, actually. Is that even possible?

Pagans “Dead End America” / “Little Black Egg”

High energy, stripped-down, snarly punk songs from 1979 era Pagans on Drome Records. The B-side, a cover of The Nightcrawler’s “Little Black Egg,” doesn’t do much for me, but “Dead End America” is an approximately 2 minute definition of punk rock. I especially like the weird throbbing noise between vocal lines that sounds like water being agitated in a rubber bladder, but I suspect is something the bass might be doing. (The bass player, Tim Allee, was very good.) I saw the Pagans play a few times—it was at a club in Cleveland, or Lakewood, on Detroit, just west of W.117^th. I might have bought it at a show—or was there a record store next to the club?—I don’t remember. It’s a striking pink and black label, and there’s a heavy paper cover with a reproduction of a 1978 Cleveland Press newspaper clipping of the Jonestown Massacre. The other side is a photo of singer, Michael Hudson, and some credits. It was put out by Johnny Dromette, a kind of punk impresario back then—I heard lots about him but don’t think I ever met him. I also had the single with “What’s This Shit Called Love” (my fav), but I lost it somehow. My friends and I regularly drove to Cleveland from Sandusky for punk shows, and we saw the Pagans as much as anyone—they were a fun and menacing band—not real approachable—they were the cool kids. I remember when they returned after a tour, and now they all had long hair, and them not giving a fuck impressed me, at the time, as the most punk thing ever. I feel like the club had a different name, but I can’t remember it—but it was eventually The Phantasy NiteClub, with the pirate ship inside—saw a lot of shows there. Mike Hudson went on to do a lot of writing. He passed away a few years back. I read his book, Diary of a Punk—it’s excellent, worth reading—and seems to be hard to find now. I gave my copy to my niece—I hope she kept it!