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.

Skeeter Davis “Skeeter Sings Standards”

What if I had I heard this record having never heard—or heard of—Skeeter Davis? That is the challenge. I enjoy these kinds of mental experiments—but honestly, I can’t really imagine hearing her sing for the first time. That’s what I’m thinking during the heart-melting first song, “When I Fall in Love.” I guess the question would be, would I have fallen in love with her at that moment? First listening, first song? I think so. It’s just the quality of her voice. I guess there’s a lot more to it—the songs, arrangements, just generally her style—but the solid foundation of everything here is Skeeter Davis’ voice, which is just there—nostalgic, romantic, reassuring, solid, and even kind of weird (in a way I can’t really articulate). Which often leads me to think—why is it that I don’t always listen to one of her records—at least once a day? Because life is finite.

Anyway, it’s an excellent record with beautiful arrangements, including some odd touches I haven’t noticed on her other records (that I’ve heard—still haven’t heard them all!) such as some plaintive, orchestral horns, and subtle vibes. Standards, of course, all popular songs, though some I’m unfamiliar with—but either way, they’re all made new—which is exactly what you should do when performing a standard. Of the songs I’m well familiar with, there are some unusual approaches, like with: “All of Me,” “Fly Me to the Moon,” “Secret Love,” I Wanna Be Loved by You,” “Smile,” and “Cry Me a River.” They all sound fresh here—even though I’ve heard those songs a million times.

The album cover really looks all of 1965, I guess, with the title and song list in a white band across the top, along with the RCA Victor logo. The photo of Skeeter Davis is oddly dark, but maybe it’s just the printing—who knows. It looks great dark, in a way—it’s supposed to be in her “music room,” I’m guessing—and maybe it really is. She’s wearing a crazy orange dress with a fur hem and gold and rhinestones around the neck. She’s sitting on a big old sofa, looking through sheet music, selecting songs to sing, I guess. Behind her looks like a records shelf, and there’s a speaker there that looks like one of the Advent speakers I had in the Seventies (though they didn’t exist until 1967). The liner notes are always good—these by Ken Grant of KNUZ, Houston—are particularly fine. Besides some of the more glowing words about Skeeter Davis I’ve read, he also mentions producer Chet Atkins, and arrangers Anita Kerr and Harold Ragsdale. Best of all, he describes Skeeter’s live performances, in which her open, honest personality shines through—due to her charm, ad-libbing, and love for the audience. It makes me sad that I never had the chance to see her.

It’s hard to choose, but I think my favorite song on the record is “You Tell Me Your Dream,” which is a great title, and a fascinating song, and has one of those spoken intros (and short, spoken part in the middle) that I really love. I was not familiar with this one, but I guess it goes way back—to the Twenties and Thirties. A lot of people recorded it, of course, but not quite like this one. Well, every song on this record is great—and they are quite different from each other. They get better after repeat listenings, too. It was one of my promises to myself (aka resolutions) for the new year—to write shorter reviews—to try for one paragraph—but there was just a lot I wanted to say about this one. I could go on, too… because the last time I listened to this, I had to think that maybe it’s my favorite of all the Skeeter Davis records I’ve ever heard. Which would pretty much make it my favorite record, period—so… good way to start out the year! I didn’t see that coming!

The George Shearing Quintet and Orchestra “White Satin”

I’ve written about many George Shearing records here, but I won’t stop until I touch on them all—he’s one of my favorites (I won’t go into that whole childhood business, again). I was thinking, if I ran one of those retro cocktail lounges—you know, classic style, very dark, no chocolate martinis!—I’d play nothing but Shearing. Well, not exactly true, but I’d stay away from digitally remixed lounge music, or cleaned up jazz standards that make you feel like you’re in a doctor’s office. One good thing about George Shearing is you can find beat-up vinyl copies of his records for next to nothing, and they sound great—and would be the absolute best sound for cocktail lounge ambience. This is another really good one, from 1960—probably one of the smoothest sounding records I own—it’s the Shearing Quintet (musicians not credited here, but includes bass, drums, guitar, and vibes) along with an orchestra conducted by Billy May. The 12 songs on this record blend into a seamless evening of silky music (I’ll keep it in mind if I’m ever dating again) including some of my favorites. “Laura,” “Dream,” “How Long Has This Been Going On,” “There’ll Be Another Spring,” “There’s a Small Hotel, and “Moonlight Becomes You.” I love his albums titles—I’ve already written about Latin Affair and Black Satin and Burnished Brass. Here’s a few more (believe it or else) that I’m still waiting to come across: Soft and Silky, Latin Lace, Satin Affair, Velvet Carpet, and Blue Chiffon. It may sound like I’m making those up, but no. And there’s plenty more.

I found this one at a thrift store, probably a dollar, and the vinyl happens to be in excellent condition, but the cover is one of the most hilariously beat up I’ve seen—it looks like it spent time in a barn, yet still cared for. The front is almost totally separated from the back, which has an informational promo sticker (with song credits) in one corner, along with a lot of cryptic markings from previous owners. The front is the usual Shearing cover, a lovely woman with a lot of hair (in this case, red), and she’s, surprise, wearing white satin and reclining on more white satin. There are more markings, some initials, a date (6-26-60—I was five months old!), a $1.99 price sticker, and hand scrawled: 25 cents, right on the woman’s shoulder! The funniest thing, though, is that someone glued a carefully cut piece of pink paper over the part of the woman’s chest that’s not covered by the dress. Naturally, I had to find a photo of the album online for comparison, and of course there isn’t that much bare skin revealed—but someone not only took offense, they were careful to make their alterations in a manner respectful to the original photograph. If you don’t know the cover, or look closely, you might be fooled, thinking the glued paper actually is an additional garment! 25 cents, ha! This album cover is priceless—it should be recognized as a masterpiece—and be hanging in the museum of found/altered art!

Julie London “Julie Is Her Name”

You could say the same thing about Christie, Andrews, the girl I had a crush on in third grade, my aunt and uncle’s poodle, and probably someone you know well—as well as this singer—it almost sounds like an introduction, doesn’t it? I guess she was acting for a decade before this LP, but it was a hit record—it begins with her biggest hit song “Cry Me a River”—you might remember her appearance, and that song, in The Girl Can’t Help It (1956)—a very weird scene. This is a low-key, smooth, mellow, make-out record—her voice is like vanilla yogurt (way better—I’m kind of sad I used that comparison—maybe expensive Scotch and menthols, I don’t know). She’s accompanied only by guitar (Barney Kessel) and bass (Ray Leatherwood)—and these are some fine versions of some of my favorite standards, including “I Should Care,” “I’m in the Mood for Love,” “I’m Glad There is You,” “It Never Entered My Mind,” “Easy Street,” “No Moon at All,” “Laura,” and more—thirteen songs, no bad ones. The striking cover is a chest up photo of her in front of a light-green background with just a tiny glimmer of a lowcut dress evident (they probably first tried to crop it so she could be imagined wearing nothing, but this was 1955). The liner notes are in a font smaller than my early ‘zines (everyone complained about eyestrain)—an enthusiastic bit by Bill Ballance, and then some real excess by screenwriter Richard Breen: “…there is a sweet impermanence about things; the marigold will lose its yellow; spring will not last forever; not all butterflies will stay genial.” Just that bit says a lot, and he’s really pushing it with the butterfly part.

Jeff Chandler “Sincerely Yours”

I’ve always been aware of Jeff Chandler, the Hollywood actor, because my brother was named after him, or so the story goes. But my parents didn’t give him the middle name “Chandler,” thinking that would be too much, so they gave him the same middle name as me (Scott)… thus I grew up thinking all siblings (at least of similar gender) had the same middle, as well as last, names. Similar to how I grew up thinking everyone had sliding doors, jalousie windows, and were allowed to say “fuck” at the dinner table. It was a valuable lesson when I learned other people have different experiences than my own… too bad it took me to like the age of 38. Anyway, he was in a lot of movies, and he has a pretty great look—he really reminds me of the artist rendition of detective Shell Scott is the books by Richard Prather—I don’t think he ever played Shell Scott—but I haven’t sifted through his extensive filmography yet. One thing I just read on the Big Board that I’d never heard—Race Bannon, the Jonny Quest character, was modeled after Jeff Chandler. I also didn’t realize his real name was Ira Grossel, and he died at the young age of 42. He sure worked a lot by then, though—besides all the movies, he also sang in nightclubs and recorded a few records. Though this one, from 1966, came out after his death. It’s got a great cover, a nice picture of him in nature, with a hat. There’s a fine selection of standards, with an orchestra, and from the first note you realize he can’t sing, but he goes about it like a pro. I have a particular fondness for singers that can’t sing—you could even say I’m a connoisseur of the form, and I’m not alone. And when I say “can’t sing,” that’s a shorthand way of saying he can sing, but his singing is somewhat unusual, even kind of weird, some might say odd—but pure heaven for Chandler fans. I guess I turned that into a longhand way of saying somewhat less… but then, I’m an idiot. I love this record, and I won’t hesitate to pick up more Jeff Chandler vinyl if I have the fortune of coming across it in the Mitch Miller bins.

June Christy “Gone for the Day”

I have one other June Christy record (“Something Cool”) which has one of my favorite ever album covers. This one, from 1957, isn’t quite “polar opposite”—but it’s not quite Equatorial, either—and it’s definitely a spring or summer day. It almost like it’s trying so hard not to be cool, it’s cool in itself, if that makes any sense. It doesn’t, really—but I find this cover fascinating—I’ve always been curious about people having their picture taken with a tree. Sometimes they touch, or hold on to, a branch. I always wondered about that. In this photo, June Christy, hair pulled back, subtle (save her eyebrows) makeup, no earrings, no jewelry except for a pearl bracelet. She’s casually dressed in slacks and a striped, possibly men’s, dress shirt, and is sitting rather awkwardly against a slim, leaning tree—her elbow against the tree, supporting her head, and her other hand holding a small branch. The woods, behind, is out of focus, but the tree seems to be leaning toward what looks like a scum covered pond, with her name and the title, “Gone for the Day,” hovering over it in a stylish, simple font. There’s something about the whole look—from shirt to the tree selection, to the font to the pond, that I just really, really like. It’s as if she’s saying, I really don’t give all that much of a flying fuck. Relaxed! But even kind of annoyed. The only way the cover could be better is if there was a fly siting on her cheek, or visible sweat, or something—you name it—in her shirt pocket.

The orchestra is Pete Rugolo and is very fine, and I love June Christy’s singing—perfect for this mood, and these songs of relaxation and carefree between times. Of the twelve songs, the only one I know well is “When the Sun Comes Out”—one of my favorite standards—and this is a great version. “It’s So Peaceful in the Country” is kind of an epic essay on moving out of the city, quite a song. “Interlude” is a fascinating one, it’s slow and meandering, kind of literary—you can’t really call it a pop song. It’s like a short story, but in a five-minute song. “Love Turns Winter to Spring” is a particularly beautiful one, with subtle vibes—and it fits in one of my favorite song categories—songs about seasons. With a particularly beautiful melody, “When the World was Young” is another epic, played here with the intro—I know this one from somewhere. The breezy, jazzy “Gone for the Day” is the perfect song to name the record after—I like the sentiment. “(Love’s Got Me in a) Lazy Mood” is a lovely one to end with—great song. Really, they’re all excellent songs, and excellent versions—this is a substantial record—it’s one to put on any time—though I suppose hot weather would be the thing.

Frank Sinatra “Moonlight Sinatra”

Nice that my random system picked a moon-themed record on this weekend of the “Sturgeon Moon”—but you’ve got to wonder. This one is from 1966—and it’s a pretty good Sinatra, with the Nelson Riddle orchestra. The only negative is the cover—not one of his better ones (there are some really inspired Sinatra covers, so, a lot of competition). I mean, it’s an okay artist’s rendering—just his face—and it looks like they tried to replicate moonlight shining on a person, which isn’t easy. He mostly looks an odd shade of purple, and a little seasick. I get it—I slept, like, not at all, last night. Ten songs with “Moon” in the title—I’m not going to list them all—but they’re all good. It was probably hard to resist the temptation to make a double album. My favorite is “Moon Love”—a song I particularly like because some friends and I named a band after it, back in the 80s. Other favorites here are: “Moonlight Becomes You” and “I Wished On The Moon”—and there are also some that I’m a little less familiar with, which is nice. There are brief but stellar liner notes, on back—by Stan Cornyn—who was an exec with Warner Bros—who the internet tells me won some Grammys for liner notes! I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but that makes me happy. This odd sentence caught my eye: “In a world whose people seldom look for love any farther than their own palms…” Whoa. And that was decades before the “Smartphone” was invented. Good liner notes! So I’m gonna excerpt an entire paragraph—I don’t think Stan Cornyn would mind: “The Moon: who is our Earth’s constant lover, who comes alive only in darkness, who comes back to us as inevitably as nightfall. To sing of the Moon, and not of missiles, of romance and not of fudge, of love and not lollipops, is old-fashioned. Something out of Grandma’s day. Out of date, like the stars. Non-chic, like Valentines. Corny, like your own heart’s beat.” Thank you, Stan Cornyn! And thank you Frank and Nelson… and thanks for nothin’ Sturgeon Moon. Nice Sinatra record. That last bit was mine, which is why, I guess, DJ Farraginous isn’t wining any Grammys.

Louis Armstrong and His Orchestra “Town Hall Concert Plus”

I’m not sure where I picked up this record—I’m guessing they pressed a million of them and you can find it in a thrift store—and if you do, buy it. It sounds great—even this copy, that looks like a truck drove over it, is very fine. This is a live Louis Armstrong record from 1957, that doesn’t really sound live—I mean that in a good way—a lot of live records strike me as a kind of compromise—in that you’re not there seeing and hearing the performance live—and the sound isn’t as good as a studio record. I’m just not a fan of the “live record”—with a few notable and major exceptions. It’s funny, I was just out walking and a guy rode past me on a bicycle, playing music so loud I could make it out, and it was: “Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends!” Ha, that’s the part I heard (I suppose the guy could have had, like, a loop of that playing, the weirdo.) That’s an Emerson, Lake & Palmer record, which I believe is a triple album, with songs that are way, way too long. I make fun of that band, a lot, but I did see them live once, in Cleveland, late Seventies, I think—and they were pretty great. It’s not every day you get to see a guy act like he’s having sex with a Hammond B3 organ.

That was a diversion, but anyway, as good as some of these live rock acts were in the Seventies, I’m sure it would have really been unforgettable seeing Louis Armstrong, at any point in his career. You might not directly hear it, but all popular and rock music owes everything to him. All good songs on this record, and the orchestra—all excellent. From the credits, it seems to be a mishmash of live performances—but it comes across a pretty uniform. Maybe I should read the extensive liner notes. Half of the text is a quoted introduction by Fred Robbins, when he introduced Louis Armstrong and orchestra at a Town Hall show in 1947, NYC. It’s a pretty inspired statement—part of what he said is similar to what I just said, above! So, six of the songs are recordings from that concert, and the rest are various other numbers—they seem to be well selected. His fine rendition of “Pennies from Heaven,” that starts out the second side, it occurred to me, is so great, you could drop it into any movie, or any situation, at any point, and it would both change everything and make it somehow better. And that includes my afternoon, today.

Big Bay Band “Heathsville”

This is one of those records that makes no sense, as nothing on the front cover, back cover, or label matches up that well—you’d almost think it’s in the wrong cover, but the songs actually match up. According to the label, it’s “The Big Bay Band,” who sound to be an accomplished swing band, and do put some flair into some of these songs. Of course, some of them are too corny and unlistenable, but others, like “I’ve Got the World on a String” are pretty inspired (well, it’s a great song). The cover is a $1.98 photo session out in the woods with three women holding up various horns, jubilantly. If you squint, they actually look like zombies in a scene from Dawn of the Dead. Only the closest woman’s grin gives it away—not zombies—jubilant. Which makes me think about all the people who have been playing zombies, or extras as zombies. It’s probably a little harder than it looks, to get the facial expression and the movement just right. Though it’s beyond me, at this point, why anyone cares.

The Dell Trio “Cocktail Time”

I expected this to be one of those corny records, like “Music for…” (“Music for Dressing Deer,” “Music for Cleaning Game”) like you’ll find in the open-one-day-a-week antique stores in the North Woods, and are sometimes on the sound-system of supper clubs—but this isn’t corny at all, it’s just a great record. Since the record has no info on it whatsoever (except song titles, and ads for about 50 other Harmony (the label) records, I’ll just have to make up a bio: The Dell Trio consists of Grandma Eunice Dell on the church Hammond, local handyman Charlie Bill Pike on accordion, and Bob Flippen mixing the cocktails, occasional jug, and glass percussion. No, wait, there’s a guitar on there, too. I suspect that the organ is playing bass and also doing the percussion. But like I said, I just made that up—there are actual real people playing on this record, not fictional characters, and a real Dell Trio somewhere in the past. Or maybe they’re still together, playing in an early spot at this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival. But most likely they are elderly, not touring much, or passed on. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to find anything about them with the internet.

This is a really good record, though, and worth picking up if you see it in a thrift store. It’s got a racy album cover, what looks like a man’s legs and a woman’s legs protruding from a sofa, though we don’t see the rest of them, they’re out of frame, but we’re led to believe they’re making out. The room is over-lit by a hanging paper lamp, and there’s green and orange/pink pillows on the floor, suggesting bohemianism. A little table is holding two cocktails, a Martini and an Old-Fashioned, and there’s a standing ashtray with a cigarette that has gone out. There’s also a little clay-potted plant on the table—I don’t know what the plant is, but I think it’s supposed to suggest, but not advertise, marijuana. Songs include “Cocktails for Two” and “Stumbling” (never heard that one before!), two moon songs in a row, and also a couple of my favorites, “September Song” and “Laura”—nice versions. One could have a worse hobby than collecting all the recorded versions of “Laura”—there’s a lot, and they’re pretty much all good. I’m obsessed with that movie, if I haven’t mentioned that recently.