THE LAST TEN ALBUMS I LISTENED TO (Winter 2019, Countdown–Another All Vinyl Edition)

10) Various Artists  Nuggets: Original Artyfacts From the First Psychedelic Era 1965-1968 (1972)

Ain’t it beautiful? The (reissue) cover, the concept, the overkill, the noise. Although some of these records were big hits, by the time Lenny Kaye got the idea to gather them all together in one place, there was at least some danger of them being forgotten. A bazillion spin-offs later (including three box sets put out by Rhino which, yes, yes, I have) and there are probably a thousand or so records that deserve to be forgotten but can’t be as long as somebody, anybody, is consumed by the desire to prove they can dive deeper into obscurity than you in search of a lost aesthetic that really should be ruling the world. This is still the best of the lot. I used to think I would change a cut or two, but time has only elevated it. It’s all emblazoned in my brain now. I wouldn’t change a thing.

9) Various Artists Super Girls (1986)

Okay, this I would change….a little. One last gasp at putting out a definitive girl group set, sans Phil Spector, in the vinyl era. There is plenty of great music, but the set is schizophrenic: girlish pop mixed with some hard-core R&B numbers that happened to be sung by females, with the unclassifiable Jaynetts and Shangri-Las thrown in for good measure, not to mention Brenda Lee. The schizoid problem, incidentally, would not have been solved by more Spector (the Paris Sisters are here and they only point up the set’s split personality.)

I’m glad to have it and all…but, pulling it out for the holidays, I was reminded why it never went into heavy rotation back in the days when vinyl was still king at my house. It surges….then it flags….then it surges..and you think, less might be more?

8) Various Artists 18 King Size Rhythm & Blues Hits (1967)

This doesn’t flag. I’m not sure it was the set it might have been (a couple of re-recordings…the Platters’ side is early, pre-fame) but it’s stellar just the same. I mean, that early Platters on “Only You” isn’t just a valid take, it’s a killer.

And don’t covers sometimes make a difference? Somehow that beautiful combination of colors that Columbia Records put together to promote their recently acquired King Records catalog always creates the right mood for me. I feel like I’m in a smoky corner waiting for the floor show on the wrong side of town in 1954 from the minute I see it on the shelf.

7) Graham Parker Howlin’ Wind (1976)

I’m always surprised to rediscover, yet again, that this isn’t a punk record. England, 1976, scenester, cultish following. How can it not be punk or at least “punkish”?

It’s always better for the distinction. Really , if you aren’t the Clash, I’d rather you not be punk, or, God forbid, punkish. Just my personal prejudice. And, every time I put this on–once or twice a decade–I swear I’m gonna get to know it better.

Maybe this will be the decade it really happens.

6) Paul McCartney and Wings Band on the Run (1973)

Okay, this one….I’m really going to devote myself to knowing this one better. Because I really want to know if “Let Me Roll It” constitutes an act of arrogance or subversion. I mean, one day, Paul McCartney woke up and said You know, John’s been a bit mean about me of late, so I think what I’ll do is, I’ll make a record in John’s signature style but, instead of just making it a parody or something, I’ll actually do John better than John can do John. I’ll not only do the singing and writing part of it better, I’ll even do the angry bit better. And I’ll leave it there as a reminder that John can only be John, but I can be anybody. 

And I’ll let the world sort out whether any of that makes it worth a single hit of “Jet,” delivered straight to the veins without any jingling intervention by the radio.

Yep, I definitely need to listen more.

5) Toots & the Maytals Funky Kingston (1975)

I’m starting a little project of finishing off collecting the LPs listed on Greil Marcus’s Treasure Island recommendations from his 1979 illuminati standard Stranded: Rock and Roll for a Desert Island. One way to keep myself (and my pocket book) interested is by listening to a lot of the ones I already have. This one–which I’ve had forever but somehow never acquired an intimate knowledge of–was a revelation. It’s been released in various forms on both vinyl and CD, but I can’t imagine any lineup beating the one I have. Toots Hibbert was/is frequently compared to Otis Redding (for whom I’ve been developing a whole new appreciation I’ll probably need  to write about in the future) but I hear more Ray Charles myself. That’s hardly a bad thing, especially since reggae puts even more structural limits on a singer than southern soul. I don’t count it a coincidence that Toots joined Ray in bringing whole new worlds to John Denver’s “Country Roads.” Call it the vision thing.

This one’s going into heavy rotation.

4) The Maytals Do the Reggae 1966-70 (1988)

In vinyl days (which I’m happy to say are coming ’round again), this was always more my speed. Maybe it still is, even if I’m never convinced I’ve comprehended a single word.

Roots reggae at it’s Leslie Kong-produced peak, then, and, of course, I don’t mean I failed to understand it. It always sounded like a soundtrack for the horror stories my missionary parents used to bring home from reform schools (or, in my dad’s case, prisons) filled with the wretched of the modern earth.

3) Dave Mason Alone Together (1970)

Weird album. Loved by some, dismissed by others, the crit-illuminati couldn’t get a reliable read on it and, despite my innate desire to confound the confounders at every possible turn, neither can I.

It fits the tenor of its times: Bloozy, Anglo, Laid Back Cali, uncredited Eric Clapton sideman-ship floating around in there somewhere. I can’t really make sense of it. But what do I know? The Dave Mason I loved was the one who had a big pop hit with “We Just Disagree,” which still makes me smile and remember–I like the rest but in thee end it just makes me shrug, no matter how much I want the worlds to collide.

2) Warren Zevon Stand in the Fire (1980)

One of the greatest live albums ever recorded. Performance freed up something in Zevon that rarely got loose in the studio. His vocals were better, his bands were tighter, even his lyric improvs were better. (Has there ever been a leap of faith into a dark zone that landed more beautifully on point than changing the line after There’s a .38 Special up on on the shelf from If I start feeling stupid I’ll shoot myself to And I don’t intend to use it on myself?) No, of course there hasn’t.

Bonus tracks later added to the CD only subtracted from the overall effect. It’s perfect as it stands, from the opening title track (written for the tour) all the way down to a “Bo Diddley’s a Gunslinger” that links the album to the history of the world and, unimaginably, tops the original.

1) War Greatest Hits (1976)

Was it really possible to sum up the entire decade, and all the decades to come, in 1976?

It was, but you would never have known it without these guys. Without them, it all just felt incoherent.

In a generous mood, I try to believe “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” was/is the record that best defined my beloved 70’s. But in my heart I know it is/was “Slippin’ Into Darkness,” even if my only cavil with this mind-bending album is that it substitutes the powerful hit single version for the long version that’s too harrowing for words.

Til next time then!

DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (The “5” Royales Up)

“The Slummer the Slum”
The “5” Royales (1958)
B-Side, did not make the charts
Recommended source: It’s Hard But It’s Fair: The King Hits and Rarities

“There’s only one difference between me and you
You got money in your pocket and I got a hole in my shoe..
All from doing the Slummer the Slum”

Of all the dance crazes that never quite took off, The Slummer the Slum is the one I most wish had made Bandstand just to see if anybody would admit it had a good beat and you could dance to it.

It was made by my favorite fifties’ rock and roll band, which was called Lowman Pauling, who also wrote it, and released by the vocal group he accompanied, who called themselves the “5” Royales. (I reviewed their mind-blowing box set here.)

Pauling and the Royales hailed from North Carolina and started out on Apollo records in the late forties as a searing, southern-style gospel group. While still on Apollo, they began to move into the secular r&b market. Too hardcore to ever court much pop success, they nonetheless struck a chord with black audiences (the one above is in Cleveland) and had a nice run of hits that landed them a contract with the King label in Cincinnati, where their presence probably had something to do with the label’s subsequent ability to sign, among others, James Brown (a near acolyte) and Little Willie John.

Oddly enough, when they reached King, which should have given them a bigger reach, they stalled out for three years before Paul came up with the classics that established their name for good in the rock and roll universe: “Think,” “Dedicated to the One I Love,” “Tell the Truth,” all successful for them at the time and later big hits for the obscure likes of James Brown, Ray Charles, the Shirelles, the Mamas & the Papas.

They soldiered on into the sixties without ever reaching the charts again themselves. Along the way, Brown, Steve Cropper, Eric Clapton and others paid lavish tribute and turned Lowman Pauling’s guitar into a foundational element of funk, soul and hard rock.

But he was a genius lyricist, too. Never more than here, where he limned out the politics of the Frozen Silence he wouldn’t live to see in a few hilarious, slashing lines that provide a prequel to War’s “The World is a Ghetto” and cut just as deep.

I don’t know any single record that’s a greater testimony to the bottomless nature of Rock and Roll America and fifties’ r&b.

“Don’t try to figure out where I come from
I could be a fat cat from Wall Street,
I could be the Purple People Eater’s son….
All from doing the Slummer the Slum….”

THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT OF GREAT GUITAR PLAYERS… (Mickey Baker, R.I.P.)

…But the only one I know of who actually had “Guitar”–just “Guitar”–for a nickname, was Mickey Baker, who passed away in France on November 27.

He was best known to the general public as half of Mickey and Sylvia, who had a big hit in the fifties’ with “Love is Strange,” one of the revolution’s strangest and greatest hits.

He was better known behind the scenes as the go-to session guitarist for at least three of the era’s giant independent R&B labels, Savoy, King and–most notably–Atlantic.

Which is to say he was a twentieth century titan even before he went on to write one of the world’s most influential jazz guitar lesson books. I have to confess that this was one of those instances where someone passed away and I was actually shocked to discover he’s not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

They should correct the oversight as quickly as humanly possible.

Meanwhile, there will always–and I do mean always–be sides like these to remember him by…

Mickey Baker and Memphis Slim (Live Performance, 1968)

Mickey Baker (Live Performance from 1972)

Mickey and Sylvia “Love Is Strange” (Studio Recording)