DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (Addrisi Brothers Up)

“We’ve Got To Get It On Again”
The Addrisi Brothers (1972)
Billboard: #25
Recommended source: Have a Nice Day: Volume 8

The Addrisi Brothers, Dick and Don, started out imitating the Everly Brothers in the fifties (well, after they failed an audition for the Mouseketeers anyway) and, thanks mostly to their songwriting abilities (the big one was “Never My Love”), hung on through disco. Don passed away from pancreatic cancer in the eighties.

They had one great record on their own and it was one of their periodic rides up the charts though nowhere near as big as it should have been. You could still hear it now and again on Oldies and AC formats in the late seventies where I first encountered it. In all but a few places, it has long since vanished from the radio.

Too bad, because “We’ve Got To Get It On Again” has a unique vibe. Evidently the brothers worked best when writing from personal experience. “Never My Love” had grown out of a conversation Don had with his fiancee. “We’ve Got To Get It On Again”–distinctively brooding and intimate for all its pop sheen–was originally slated as a B-side. Some DJ in Boston turned the record over and the phones lit up. Pretty soon it was the A-side. Dick came home one day shortly thereafter and his wife said “You’re on the radio.” He thought great. Assumed it was the A-side.

“No,” she said. “The other one.”

The other one?

“You really should have told me first,” she said, “before you put it out there for millions of people.”

Honey, it was a B-side

Coincidence or not, these days, Dick lives in Argentina. Pretty sure he lives there without that particular wife.

His best record lives on in the shadows.


DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (Wilbert Harrison Up)

“Let’s Work Together”
Wilbert Harrison (1969)
Billboard: #32
Recommended source: Let’s Work Together

As “Let’s Stick Together,” this number started life as an early sixties’ side by it’s composer, Wilbert Harrison, which paired the odd rhythm and Harrison’s characteristic dry vocal with a standard lover’s plea.

It was one of those records that sounded like it ought to be a big hit some time, for somebody, under some name or other.

In the UK, eight years later, it was. Canned Heat (who held off releasing their version in the States–where it made #26–while Harrison’s was still on the chart) took it to #2 across the pond and, a few years later, Bryan Ferry took it to #12.

Here at home, Harrison’s plaintive turn, by 1969 re-purposed as a call to brotherhood and released as “Let’s Work Together,” stalled outside the Top 30.

It’s probably more famous than most records that suffer a similar mid-charting fate. If so, that’s partly because its quality (rooted in duality–a celebration of the late sixties’ communal ethos by a black man who had more to gain from its acceptance and application than most of its more celebrated practitioners and, perhaps as a result, could not deliver the uplifting lyric with the expected bound-for-the-top smile in his throat) could not quite be denied and partly because, over the years, big name critics like Dave Marsh and Greil Marcus have harkened back to it in famous forums.

I’m glad they did, because that’s how I found it (I wrote about the fine album Harrison made around it here).

What specifically brought it back to mind this week (besides the times we live in, of course…the humor of it all) was running across Canned Heat’s version, also terrific, on YouTube. I post it here for comparison’s sake (it couldn’t qualify as a Diamond fully in the Shade itself because it made the Top Ten in the UK). I promise it’s a treat musically, from a too-often forgotten band. That it features a bunch of Top of the Pops young lovelies (a couple of whom can actually dance, not always a given in these scenarios, then or now) is, I assure you, entirely beside the point. My purpose here is purely educational.


“Love Fire”
Jigsaw (1975)
Billboard: #30
Recommended source: Anthology

Jigsaw was a British band that had a history indistinguishable from dozens of other almost-might-have-beens until they scored a big international hit with “Sky High” in 1975.

Like a lot of things that seem to come from nowhere, it came from somewhere…and not just anywhere.

The band’s leaders, Clive Scott and Des Dyer had knocked around as a hard rock outfit since the late sixties, been talked into a new pop direction by the suits at their label after six years worth of stiff singles, then dumped unceremoniously when that didn’t get them anything but another stiff.

Along about then, their career seems to have been rescued by a song they wrote in the new vein called “Who Do You Think You Are?” becoming a big hit in the UK for the immortal Candlewick Green (who even I, an aficionado of this stuff, confess I don’t remember) and a small hit in the U.S. for Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods (following up their own immortal “Billy Don’t Be A Hero” which damaged or enlightened teenage lives in about equal measure back in ’74).

That all led to another label, another album, another bite at the apple, which turned out to be “Sky High,” one of the best singles of the era and perhaps the finest example of Power Pop Disco (the only competition is Ace Frehley’s “New York Groove”….don’t make me judge!).

And then, of course, they had to follow that up.

Which they sort of did

“Love Fire” is “Sky High” made over. Not quite as compelling all around, unless it catches you in the right mood…and you wonder what would have happened if the two singles had been released in reverse. Would “Love FIre” have then been the breakthrough and “Sky High” the re-hash?

Perhaps. I don’t think it would have changed the chart positions. It would have left me with one less earworm to track down when I first started listening to the radio, though. “Sky High” was, ever after, easy to find. Having missed “Love Fire” in the record stores when it was released, I had to wait for the years to go by  (and Rhino’s Have a Nice Day series) to hear it again.

It had stuck.

And it still sounded pretty darn great to me…not something I could say about every recovered memory mind you….

“Love Fire” was the last real blast for Jigsaw. They soldiered on and then went the way of all rock and roll flesh. Nothing left but a smile!

DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (Sly and the Family Stone Up)

“Soul Clappin’”
Sly and the Family Stone (1969)
Recommended source: Sly and the Family Stone: The Collection

Sly and the Family Stone worked at such a white hot pace in their 1967-72 heyday that, like the 65-67 version of the Byrds and the 75-79 version of Fleetwood Mac, they left an album or two worth of fine material in the vault and still laid a claim on being the best band of their time.

The Family’s extras emerged from the shadows in 2007, when their first seven albums were remastered and released as a box set.

I’ve been giving the albums a close listen for the first time this week (Stand and There’s a Riot Goin’ On having been longtime favorites–mine and everybody’s) and what struck me about the nature of the extras is that, where the Byrds and Fleetwood Mac were prone to leaving off their oddball stuff, Sly and company were more likely to leave off their straight stuff.

Hence, “Soul Clappin'” (sometimes, for no evident reason, listed as “Soul Clappin’ II”), which is “Dance to the Music” slightly straightened out….and just about as pleasurable. “Dance to the Music,” one of the most revolutionary records ever, is worth its own essay. But “Soul Clappin'” carries its own weight. It suggests that if Sylvester Stone had been so inclined, he could have included “the hippies and the squares”–instead of telling all the squares to go home–and gone toe-to-toe with Stax and Motown on their own turf….instead of pulling them onto his.

Genius is like that, sometimes.



“Lady Samantha”
Elton John (1969)
Did Not Make the Charts
Recommended source: To Be Continued (Box Set)


“Part Time Love”
Elton John (1978)
US #21
UK #15
Recommended source: A Single Man

I started listening to the radio seriously in late 1975. I was aware of Elton John before that. It was hard not to be at least aware (though if anyone could have managed it, it would have been me).

I didn’t have much of an opinion about him, even after I started listening to the radio. 1976 was sort of the break point. I loved “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” (still do), liked the others he had out at the time (still do, especially “I Feel Like a Bullet in the Gun of Robert Ford”). But, as “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” was a duet, the first record of his alone that I took entirely to heart was an obscure side I discovered when I plucked The History of British Rock Vol. 2 from some bargain bin or other, along about 1977. I was still in my discovery days. There were a dozen or more classics I encountered for the first time on this particular set (and, yes, I still have it), everything from “Brown Eyed Girl” to “The Mighty Quinn” to “Something in the Air.”

“Lady Samantha” didn’t take a back seat to any of them.

Knowing, by the chart book I was then busy memorizing (it came natural as I’d been a baseball stat freak), that, unlike those other records, it had never been a hit in either the U.S. or the U.K., I had one of my first inklings that my own taste might not line up with everyone’s, even when it came to the 60s, so it was a more than usually valuable marker.

As the seventies progressed, my stubborn streak would become more and more necessary.

“Part Time Love” was the next Elton record that I really loved and it came and went like a cool breeze. It followed a string of flops (by his standards) and didn’t do much to get him started again. By the time he did get started again (some time after the Thom Bell collaboration “Mama Can’t Buy You Love” had provided a nice respite for audience and artist alike in 1979) he was a changed man and a changed artist. He would remain a consistent hit-maker for another two decades. He would never matter again.

“Part Time Love” came and went so fast I didn’t have chance to score it on a 45 and years of hunting the used oldies bins proved fruitless. Once it left the radio, I never heard it any place except my head until a full decade later, when I picked up the album A Simple Man for .99 cents (less than I would have paid for the single in ’78) at my then favorite, now deceased, local record store.

All those years, my head was enough. A decade further on, when I was putting my first mix-tape of beat records together (there were dozens eventually and, still another decade on, I transferred most of them to CD), and I was looking for something to segue out of “London’s Burning,” I knew there was only one record that would do the trick. I still listen to the mix-disc regularly and every time I hear Paul Buckmaster’s soaring arrangement bleed out of London punk–and subsume and subvert it, all of it–I can’t keep from smiling.

I’ve learned to love a lot of Elton John’s music in the years since 1978, even some that he made after he stopped mattering as anything more than a celebrity hit-maker. But I never forget that I came to the biggest solo artist of my youth through the great records he made just before and just after he was King of the World.

That, too, makes me smile.


DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE ((Young) Rascals Up)

“Baby Let’s Wait”
The Young Rascals (1966)
Not Released as a Single
Recommended source:  The Rascals Anthology 1965-1972

“Baby Let’s Wait” was the second track on the Young Rascals first album. It was not released as a single and there’s no particular reason it should have been. They were, at that point, a hard-driving white American R&B band–as hard driving as any R&B band, black or white, British or American, of that or any age. Their first single “I Ain’t Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore” smoked and burned and broke them on the American charts (which they would reach 18 more times–only two of which reached the UK charts and one can understand why the Brits didn’t want the competition). Their second single was “Good Lovin’.” It smoked and burned even harder, gave the drummer, Dino Danelli, a chance to twirl his sticks on national TV, and went to #1.

Then it was on the next album.

Later on (a year or so, which, in those days, was like a generation is now–that’s why those albums had to keep coming), they hit just as big with ballads.

It’s interesting to speculate how “Baby Let’s Wait” would have done if they had released it as “Good Lovin'” was falling from the charts. Because the quality was already there. The Young Rascals came into the world full-blown. The rest of their time was just spent living up to the promise.

(As a neat aside, the Royal Guardsmen, who charted nine times themselves, had their biggest hit that wasn’t associated with Snoopy and the Red Baron with a close reading of “Baby Let’s Wait” a couple of years later. Worth tracking down on YouTube.)


DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (Checkmates, Ltd. Up)

“Love Is All I Have To Give”
The Checkmates, Ltd. (1969)
Did Not Chart
Recommended source: Back to Mono 1958-1969

The Checkmates (or Checkmates, Ltd.) were a lounge act Phil Spector became briefly enamored of in the late sixties when he was making the first of his many “comebacks.”

The other comebacks never amounted to much. He liked to latch on to some established act (a Beatle if he could get one, it not, almost anyone would do–The Ramones, Leonard Cohen, Dion) and lend his name to what they were already doing, sometimes with a pistol-waving incident or two thrown in.

But he had something prove with Checkmates, Ltd. They were unknowns, and he had a history of making hits with unknowns, the better to put himself at the center of their achievements.

He found success, too. His second release on them was “Black Pearl,” a big hit featuring the group’s tenor, Sonny Charles, in a spectacular performance that was one of the subtlest and deepest of the era’s protest-soul records.

But their first Spector release, which had gone nowhere, was just as powerful. It featured the group’s baritone, Bobby Stevens, on a record he had co-written with Spector.

Given the wunderkind’s habit of moving on once he had gotten what there was to get out of any given act, it’s an open question whether “Black Pearl” would have received the same loving care if this had been recorded first (unclear whether it was), released first (it was) and been a hit (it wasn’t).

Stevens’ delivery was remarkable here–a rougher voiced Ray Charles. Ray without the genius if you like….

…which only makes the ache burn a little deeper.

And, yes, it still sounds like a Phil Spector record.


“There’s a Red-Neck in a Soul Band”
Latimore (1975)
Billboard R&B: #36
Recommended source: Straighten It Out: The Best of Latimore

Benny Latimore was a modest fixture on the soul charts in the 70s, with three top tens (two of which crossed over to the pop Top 40) and a string of mid-charters.

This was one of the latter. It deserved better. It deserved so much better that Wild Cherry copped the concept (the exact concept) a year later and rode it to #1 Pop and R&B. There’s no use hating on Wild Cherry–I’ve seen “Play That Funky Music” bring the races together on dance floors in some very odd places and as recently as five years ago. But it’s too bad this isn’t better known. Plenty of less witty (not to mention less soulful) novelties became bigger hits and even heavy rotation oldies. I’d like to hear this on the radio just once.

Sometimes life just ain’t fair. But, hey, that’s what YouTube and the Diamonds in the Shade category are for…



“Swamp Witch”
Jim Stafford (1973)
Billboard: #39
Recommended source: Jim Stafford

All I know is: Hattie don’t vote.

You ask me how I know?

Hey, I’ve been to that part of Florida.

I only wish there were available footage of ol’ Jimbo intoning this little story song on national television (his own variety show no less…that’s how strange the 70’s were!). Still this is a nice reminder that the age when there were stories–and songs–lasted to the edge of living memory.

Good ol’ Hattie.

Did she drop in from “Wooly Bully?” Escape from it? Does she want to go back?

That I don’t know.

What else I do know, besides Hattie don’t vote, is, come the Apocalypse, ol’ Hattie gonna be just fine. Swamp Witch magic still gonna be useful and good.

Still wonder about the rest of us, though.


“Rock and Roll Love Letter”
Bay City Rollers (1976)
Billboard: #28
Recommended source: The Definitive Collection


Only the Rollers could inspire so much….plaid!

Well, we could all use a little happy. If you need a sign that the Apocalypse didn’t exactly start yesterday, though, consider that this not only stalled outside the top twenty in America, but some fool saw fit to not even release it in the UK, or half the other countries where Rollermania was a real thing.

That’s exactly the kind of stupidity that causes empires to fall.

This song has a lot of personal relevance for me because it contains my favorite misheard lyric. My original angst was bad enough, but now I find that “keep on rock and rollin’ till my jeans explode” was really “till my genes explode.”

I had feared as much, but now the internet has confirmed it.

Not that either could replace “to my Jesus soul,” which was what I heard throughout my blissfully ignorant youth.

Oh, well, at least the Rollers (or their producer) had the decency to slur the blasphemy (and I don’t mean the part about Jesus, which was holy).

There are at lest half a dozen hipper–i.e., more clearly enunciated versions–on YouTube, including the original by the song’s writer, Tim Moore. This smokes them all. You really can’t beat the pros for this sort of thing. And, just on another personal note, I can state with complete certainty that if you segue this on a properly made mix-disc and bleed it out of Madonna’s laugh at the end of “Where’s the Party” it will make your head explode.

In a good, healthy, life-affirming, purely therapeutic way.

I promise.

Smile and be well.

And, yeah, I thought about doing this as a two-fer with “Yesterday’s Hero,”–the greatest “all glory is fleeting” record ever made–but, what with so many people on Suicide Watch just now, I didn’t want to be held responsible for some kind of wrist-slitting epidemic in case this went viral. The brave can find it easily enough.