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).

100 Proof (Aged in Soul) “Somebody’s Been Sleeping in My Bed”

I grabbed this album—beat-up as it is—because I had no idea what it was—the cover is a photo of a bird nest with an egg (looks like a chicken egg) with a red question mark on it. Meaning? I have no idea, but considering the record’s title—when that egg hatches, will it be my offspring or this joker who’s been sleeping in my bed? On the back cover the nest is empty, and there’s a dead bird—kind of ominous. The label is Hot Wax—there’s a funny cartoon drawing with a flaming turntable and melting letters logo. My copy looks partially melted—it’s a little warped, the edge ragged, and beat to hell—but it still sounds great. Apparently the band was from Detroit—only released a couple of albums—this one from 1970. I bet I heard a couple of these songs on Motor City AM radio at the time.

The title song has a good funk groove and some great lines, like: “Cigarettes in the ashtray, and I don’t even smoke.” Kind of alternates between mellow soul and energetic funk—lots of fun songs. “One Man’s Leftovers (Is Another Man’s Feast)”—can’t go wrong with that title. “I’ve Come to Save You” is a standout—a really pretty number. “Ain’t That Lovin’ You (For More Reasons Than One)” starts off with spoken dialogue—a smooth talker trying to seduce a woman—followed by some ultra-smooth soul singing—a lovely song. Then we return to them in the middle of the song—he’s still trying—and then even lovelier (if that’s possible) verses, chorus, bridge. It’s an epic. And then, finally, at the end of this very, very long song—it sounds like he’s worn her down. It’s a little disconcerting, honestly, but also a pretty great song. Another good one is “Too Many Cooks (Spoils the Soup)”—a sentiment that holds especially true if one of those cooks is sleeping in your bed.

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!

Wilson Pickett “The Sound of Wilson Pickett”

I’ve heard a lot of Wilson Pickett music over the years for not having any of his records—well, maybe I did when I was younger—I know I had some compilations with him on them. Anyway, I know his distinctive voice, his singing style, of course—everyone does. I was listening to some of his stuff online awhile back, and I was finding it pretty unsatisfying—so I was trying to figure out why. I concluded that it was too energetic (for me, at this moment in time, I guess) and too chaotic—really busy arrangements—and too loud, too dense—the horn arrangements dominated—well, almost—his singing still dominated, of course—but it was like he and the horns were fighting for domination. Am I wrong about this? It occurred to me that the difference might be the musical format—I mean digital/streaming vs vinyl. Or maybe it was just me having a bad day. Anyway, today is a good day, because this record sounds great.

But it’s not a good day, it’s just another day—in fact, I feel like shit—at least I did until I started listening to this record—and now I feel good—so I’m trying to figure out what I like about this record better than some other Wilson Pickett I’ve listened to recently. This one’s called The Sound of Wilson Pickett, and it’s from 1967. I think it starts with the lack of (prevalence of) horns—how busy the horns are or aren’t—how upfront in the recording, or how jaunty the horn playing, generally. There are horns here, of course, but they’re not as much in your face. Wilson Pickett’s signing is always in your face, of course, there’s no other way. But on this record, it’s all him.

Then, maybe, it’s the songs. The record starts off perfectly with “Soul Dance Number Three”—which I particularly like because it’s really minimal—mostly guitar, bass, drums—the organ and horns are subtle and minimal—it’s a slow and really deep, repetitious groove. It’s my favorite on the record. Then there’s “Funky Broadway,” which is a little more up-tempo, but the same things apply. This side also has “I Found a Love”—one of my favorite WP songs—here there’s Part I and Part II, A and B side of the single, I guess, two and half and three minutes long. And then the last song on the side is “You Can’t Stand Alone” which is a pretty energetic love song, up-tempo and happy—but the best part is the brief organ solo which sounds just pretty crazy—it jumps right off the record. You could hear a lot more of that, but it’s kind of cool that it’s so brief.

The second side could go ahead and not exist—since the first was fully satisfying—but it’s all really good too. “Mojo Mamma” is my favorite—a killer song (written by Jerry Wexler and the great songwriter, Bert Berns).  Then there’s three Bobby Womack songs in a row, and they’re all excellent. The album cover is that weird shade of orange that I can never see without thinking of the Richard Hell record that looks similar to this one. Wilson Pickett is in front, from the waist up, wearing a sharp blue suit—he’s got an emotional expression on his face like he’s pleading with someone, and his right hand is raised in a way that matches the expression. I suppose what it is—he’s singing, expressing the emotions of the songs from the bottom of his heart—though there’s no microphone in sight—so you don’t immediately think “singing.” But who needs a microphone. And on back, some pretty extensive liner notes by someone named Paul Ackerman—actually very interesting—kind of making the points I did, above, though with more knowledge of the situation. He says the production on this record is particularly good, in part because the musicians are from the deep South—and what is avoided is “excessive instrumentation and chaotic sound.” And then the song selection is varied and good, and the WP written tunes (“Soul Dance,” “I Found a Love”) are very strong. So… I’m agreeing with this dude, partly because he’s agreeing with me—that’s often how it works.

Teena Marie “Lady T”

I heard some records by Teena Marie back in the Eighties or Nineties, I think (the decades are all running together) when Frank Kogan would write about her, maybe in the “Why Music Sucks” zine—I mean, he wrote about her positively, I think, he was a fan. I kind of remember thinking, “this is not my thing,” at the time. I picked up this record fairly recently because it reminded me of those days, and I was curious—also knowing that my musical tastes, now, run more toward what I used to find too “commercial,” or “overproduced”—outside of what I considered punk rock. Also, I liked the cover—on the front she has a disco look, lots of makeup and gold, lights glimmering off her sequined top. On the back, she’s wearing an old-timey baseball uniform and floppy hat, less makeup, and her hair in pigtails. Also, the camera is looking up at her on the front, and she’s looking just over us, at abstract concepts, or the stock exchange. On back, we are at her level, and she’s looking directly in our eyes, both confrontationally and with desire. I wish I could, off the top of my head, name half a dozen other album covers that use this same concept, which is a good one, but I can’t think of any right now. On the inside sleeve, there’s another look entirely (why not), but I’m not going into it. Also, the lyrics, which I am going to guess are written by Teena Marie—most of the songs are credited to her with a variety of co-writers, including Richard Rudolph, who produced it. The album is dedicated to Minnie Riperton, who passed away in 1979. There is guest spot by Maya Rudolph on the last song—she must have been about seven at the time. She asks what the world would be like if people saw with their hearts. It’s very sweet.

This is Teena Marie’s second album, from 1980—she’s in her early twenties here. She died very young—only 54. I generally like the more mellow, soul songs, like “Now That I Have You,” more than the harder, upbeat, more overt disco songs. Maybe that’s because I’m at home—I might feel differently if I was at a nightclub, drinking and dancing—which is likely to happen, maybe, in the next lifetime. I’ve only listened to the record a few times now, but it’s starting to grow on me in that way where you realize you like some of the songs more than others, but the ones you like, you like quite a bit. “Can It Be Love,” “Why Did I Fall in Love with You,” and “Too Many Colors” are some of the standouts, at this point. “Aladdin’s Lamp” is an odd one—kind of an extensive (though short) ballad, with tempo changes—and a part (the chorus part) that gives me a weird feeling—like I can detect the date and time, like you’re examining an old car that still runs fine—but is so different. I mean this in the best of ways. I suppose it is over forty years ago—but often music is more or less timeless—and sometimes I like when you really feel the era. I think I’ll put the record in my “give it a listen every so often” stack (if only I were so organized). It’s something that might be just the thing when I’m in the mood for it. I’m thinking mostly likely Fridays after work, you know, home happy hour, right before I prepare a spaghetti dinner for two, uncork a bottle of screw-top red, and sit across the table from the empty chair until I collapse in tears. What must my neighbors think?

The Esquires “Get on Up” / “Listen to Me”

Two songs from The Esquires, each 2:25! On Bunky Records—first Bunky label I’ve seen—I looked it up, out of Chicago. “Get On Up” is an upbeat, R&B song, a dance number, with the singing in falsetto, and then a lower voice answering, “Get on up”—it’s effective. It was a hit song in 1967. I don’t remember it, but it’s possible I heard it. The Esquires were a soul band from Milwaukee—they started playing in the Fifties, even, played throughout the Sixties, into the Seventies, moved to Chicago at some point and put out some records. The B-side, “Listen to Me,” is also very good—a different sound, different vocal style, very emotional. I looked to see if both these songs were on YouTube—they are—and I don’t usually read the “comments” (I usually avoid them), but one under this song caught my eye—someone said they played the song in their band, the Perfections, in Sandusky, Ohio, in the Sixties. That got my attention because I grew up there, and I’m always interested in any bit of history about my hometown. I knew nothing about the music scene there, of course, at that time (not yet 10 years old)—I don’t remember any local bands from that time. Plus, I lived kind of out in the country. But it’s fascinating to think about.

I love the band name, The Esquires—it’s such a classic name, and also very cool, and not ridiculous, like so many band names. There must have been a few “Esquires” over time. I wonder what people did back before there was the internet, if they wanted to find out if their prospective band name had been taken? I guess, just went for it. It’s a word with a funny history (I’m not going into it), and not too long ago, I think, attorneys used it as part of their title, but now I get the feeling that’s seen as pretentious. I used to write “Esq.” after my name, when I was a goofball kid. It’s the name of Fender electric guitar (one not unlike the Telecaster), and of course there’s that men’s magazine which used to be pretty prominent in the magazine days. These Esquires wore very cool matching suits when they performed (judging by internet photos). This is another record that I have no idea how I got it—though I do live in Milwaukee, and likely picked it up here. Maybe one of my record collector friends gave it to me—it’s in pristine condition—definitely not one of the 45’s that were sitting on top of my refrigerator in a basket. I’ll play it whenever I want to dance—though I rarely dance at home—and it’s a bit labor-intensive changing the record every 2:25. That’s 45’s for you.

Barry White “Can’t Get Enough”

I didn’t listen to Barry White back when this record came out—if I knew about him, I ignored him—maybe thinking it was too commercial? I don’t remember. This record is from 1974, the year I first smoked marijuana—though, at that time I was more inclined to listen to slightly pretentious German prog-rock. Anyway, a few years back I bought one of his early records and I loved it—so I bought a few more, including this one—though I’m not sure I listened to this one until now. I’m not crazy about the drum sound, right off—it sounds like there was something odd with the production. Or it could be something wrong with my stereo—that’s a distinct possibility, so the jury’s still out, as they say. It might just be a version of disco style production—some of the more extreme disco records, if you listen to them now, it sounds like people lost their minds (which they did, more or less). Anyway, it’s not that bad—it’s just on a few songs the snare drum sounds like someone hitting a prefab garden shed with a rubber hose. The rest of the instrumentation sounds good, anyway, including the vocals. The last song on Side One, “I Can’t Believe You Love Me,” is pretty much a Barry White masterpiece—it’s ten minutes, but I could listen for ten hours. Side Two starts out with “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe,” which is quite familiar—it must have been a hit—it’s a great song. There are only seven tracks on the record, and two of them are the brief, instrumental, “Mellow Mood” that opens and closes the record. I like the idea—but its brevity doesn’t lend itself to a good “make out record”—unless you work fast—since the whole thing is barely a half hour. There’s enough unmolested vinyl, next to the label, on each side, to park your car and still leave space for your ex-wives. I wouldn’t mind if there were only two songs total, as Barry White gets the most out of repetition and laying back—I could listen to him just do one of his intros for an hour. But I’m just wishing there was a little more, here, all in all. Anyway, it’s a fine record, and seriously worth buying for the great album cover, alone, which is a painting by Al Harper. There are four renditions of Barry White, from the neck up, different sizes—one singing (eyes closed), one looking off at the horizon, one looking at the lady to your right, and one looking directly at you. They are fine portraits, but take on a kitschy quality, presented as they are in a kind of stylized collage with a lot of circles of many shades of blue. It feels dated but wonderful—one of my favorite album covers in recent memory. I wonder what the original painting would cost you?

Minnie Riperton “Stay in Love: A Romantic Fantasy Set to Music”

This record starts out with a full-blown disco sound (it was the disco years), then settles back into a more mellow soul sound. Minnie Riperton’s singing is pretty amazing. The songs here are by her and Richard Rudolph, some with a few with co-writers—including Stevie Wonder. Romantic love songs, most of them pretty steamy. When this came out I was 17 and really into punk rock—this would not have been my thing. I still love punk rock—I just don’t listen to it that much. I can’t remember the last time I put on the Sex Pistols LP that came out later the same year as this. It’s now a cold Friday night in 2021, “The Future.” I feel like someone just beat me up—I wouldn’t be going out dancing if I could—but this record both cheers me up and makes me sad, on so many levels. Who could ask for more? It’s Chinatown.

Also, this is one of the more intriguing album covers I’ve come across recently (though not quite the knockout of 1974’s “Perfect Angel”). On the front, Minnie Riperton is reclining on a huge, burgundy sofa—the kind with a carved wooden base, and big rounded, contoured arms, and that kind of scratchy fabric—a sofa I most identify with the grandparents’ house—or maybe one in disrepair at a rental apartment, because no one wanted to move it. Above it, in a minimal frame on the wall, is the back album cover image—which is MR embracing a person in a shiny gray shirt—in front of the sofa. But on the back cover, in the framed picture is the front album cover image. Then, on the inside cover, MR, same dress, is sitting on one end of the same sofa, the cushions in disarray. No photo on the wall. Interpret meaning as you will, however—one more twist. There is a book in each of the photos, barely visible—on the front, it’s beneath her hands; on the inside, it’s on one of the sofa arms; and on back, it’s peeking out from behind the embracing couple. What is this book? The Holy Bible, perhaps? Or maybe a diary, or journal. Or maybe something else…

Isaac Hayes “…to be Continued”

I picked up this record recently—I’d seen it before, but thought it was an Isaac Hayes jigsaw puzzle. Just kidding. The cover is made to look like a puzzle that hasn’t been completed (pieces missing), while the back is the finished version. It came out in 1970, a year before the “Shaft” soundtrack record that everyone has. It starts out with a quiet monologue, very atmospheric (there are crickets chirping), that sounds like it could have inspired Barry White. Then, my favorite song on the record, “Our Day Will Come”—which I didn’t recognize at first, this is such a super dramatic version of it. Issac Hayes does not hold back on the drama. This song was recorded by a lot of people—I looked it up and got sidetracked. It was recorded by everyone from Ruby & the Romantics to the version that played at your wedding. I haven’t heard them all, but I’m guessing this one is right up there. Next, there’s an 11 minute version of “The Look of Love,” another song I love. I grew up in a time with Burt Bacharach songs playing all the time, it seemed like, and I’m still fond of those songs, but I like the Isaac Hayes versions of Bacharach/David songs as much as anyone’s.

Side two starts out with “Ike’s Mood,” which then runs into a 9 minute version of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling”—one of the most recorded songs of all time. It’s funny, this record has only two vinyl, song division grooves in it, one on each side—so it’s like a four song album! The length of the songs kind of make it radio-unfriendly, I suppose, though of course they’d release, shortened, single versions of songs. I wonder if there were, like, late-night, soul stations in Memphis who would play the long versions? I was 10 years old at this time, which would have been more or less the time I went around with a little, plastic transistor AM radio. The music station I could get in was CKLW out of Detroit, or Windsor, a top 40 station that played a lot of Motown. I remember the jingle “CKLW—the Motor City!”—and I remember it being very pop oriented, short, energetic songs, though it was also the first place I heard The Temptations “Ball of Confusion,” which felt epic, but was actually only four minutes long (I bought the 45, and this was also 1970). Anyway, I’ll have to try to look into what radio stations were playing what—like the long versions of these songs—in the early Seventies. I don’t know where you’d hear this record. You’ll hear it, now, in my apartment, if you come over on a date (that is, if I ever start dating again), because this has got to be the ultimate make-out record.

5 Stairsteps & Cubie “Love’s Happening”

I didn’t know this band at all, and saw a beat-up copy of this LP in an antique store—but it plays fine and sounds good. It reminded me of the Jackson 5 on the first song, but then I don’t know the Jackson 5 other than the hits, and they were a few years later? Most of the songs are by Curtis Mayfield, and are all good, plus he’s the producer. They are proclaimed “The First Family of Soul” on the back of the record, so I’ll buy it—they even list their names and ages on back, kids from 15 to 19, plus Cubie who’s 3, and called “the old man.” I love the picture on the cover, the 1968 fashions—and it looks like it’s taken in the storage room of a department store—some truly bizarre details in this photo—something that would never happen now in this age of overthinking, over editing, over photoshopping. The little guy, I assume that’s Cubie, is wearing a yellow, red, and blue Mondrian scarf—I swear I had that same scarf when I was about the age of this record! It’s on Curtis Mayfield’s “Curtom” label, and the label art is very cool—kind of bizarre—there’s what looks like a tiny scorpion as part of the logo. “Don’t Change Your Love” jumps out as a killer song. But I like them all. They’re be an upbeat number, then a slower, more soulful one, back and forth, and that works well here. I like this record a lot, second or third time through, I’m liking it more. This is the best four dollars I’ve spent in awhile—I think I’ll keep this one out for listening.